World of Promise
by anaRciram
Summary: Years have passed since Yrene Towers Westfall and Aelin Galathynius defeated the Valg king and queen. And Aelin has taken to heart what Yrene told her during their farewell: to send for her when her child is near. (A collection of excerpts from Erilea's story following the war.) *updated sporadically lol (my life is hectic i need help)*
1. Nineteen Years Later

a.n.

hi, and thank you so much for reading! just a disclaimer: not all the chapters will be nineteen years later—some might be more, some might be less. i'm open to suggestions regarding the amount of time that has passed post-war. i am also open to suggestions regarding the prompt for each chapter. if you want to read about a certain aspect of any of the characters' lives, i'll be happy to write it.

another disclaimer: sarah j. maas owns all (except for the new generation).

don't forget to leave a review and let me know what you think!

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There was hardly anything more beautiful than Terrasen in the spring. The battering snows and biting winds annually yielded to lush green plains and colorful wildflowers, the most awe-inspiring of all the burning blossom that was the kingsflame.

It cropped up from time to time, one in a field here, one beside the ancient road there. Terrasen whispered of the flower, she knew, of the hundreds of fiery blooms that sprouted from the lush earth. Not only one, as had appeared for the previous ruler. For Orlon. No, now there were hundreds. Now... a true, lasting peace.

Lady Yrene Towers Westfall sat sidled up beside the carriage window, looking out into the passing world, eyeing the sun as it made its final pulls toward the horizon. It cast the carriage interior in a wash of gold and orange, the light as warm on her face as the hand clasped around hers. The rocking and swaying had become like a mother's song, or a father's soft tale just before bed. It lulled her, making her eyelids droop and her head weigh heavily on the body pressed against the plush seat beside her.

The last time she had seen Terrasen, it had been at this time of year. As she joined the celebration Orynth had thrown itself into, lasting for days and roaring on well into that final night. The grand commemoration of the queen who loved her kingdom so, whose heart burned in loving wildfire. Her birthday.

Terrasen's people had made into something of a holiday. Along with Yrene's. Much to her chagrin.

But the thought was enough to make her smile as the wild tangle of Oakwald continued to flit by.

She sensed his attention before he gave her a small squeeze of the hand. Turning, Yrene found her husband studying her, smiling faintly. He jerked his chin towards the seat opposite theirs, to a boy and girl dozing against each other, heads bobbing slightly with the carriage's motions, arms linked at the elbows.

Yes, Yrene believed there were few things more lovely than spring in Terrasen. But from the moment she first glimpsed him, first held her to her heart, first spied Chaol whispering sweet words of love and adoration to them both, she had no doubt that the sight of her children, of her pride and her undiluted joy, rivaled even the plush green fields, fresh from melted snow, and the crystal-clear streams, turquoise and sparkling and no longer frozen.

Chaol's expression remained amused as he again gestured to the boy—Terence, he was called. His jaw dangled open ever-so-slightly, but it was enough, Yrene realized as she laughed quietly, for a tiny trickle of drool to escape from the corner of his lips.

Lips that were hers. Same shape, same fullness to them. And if his eyes were to flutter open, they would reveal that smoldering gilded color, a shining pool of melted gold.

_Oh, he's yours, alright,_ Yrene often heard, usually accompanied with a hearty chuckle or a bright grin. And she always answered with a grin of her own, for the words rang true. Terence was her son, through and through. Though his flaring temper and towering stature he had gotten somewhere else.

From the man at her side. Who now looked upon the girl.

The girl with Yrene's soft features, yet with Chaol's coloring. Younger than Terence by two years, Lyanna was a vision, ripe with youth at sixteen, and brimming with sweetness and with life. Her brown hair spilled down her back to her waist in heavy curls, a milk chocolate to complement the caramel tresses of her brother. And her eyes… even more magnificent, Yrene often marveled. For they glowed the warmest coppery shade. An alloy, a joining together of Yrene's molten gold and Chaol's gleaming bronze.

Yes, Yrene thought with a low sigh. The sight of her children would always be the loveliest.

The healers at the Torre had gone absolutely mad when Yrene had presented Terence and Lyanna to them during a visit to Antica. They had been perhaps a bit too young to board a rocking ship and sail an entire sea, with Terence just about to complete his second year and Lyanna a mere newborn. Yrene herself probably should not have been traveling, due to the havoc childbirth had wreaked upon her body. But she wanted Hafiza to see them. Wanted the Healer on High to hold them, and weep with joy, and clutch them to her chest, as Yrene had wished to do every minute of every day. And when Hafiza did just that, Yrene deemed any risk she had taken in visiting completely, utterly worth it.

She leaned over to gently wipe away the thin stream of drool on her son's chin, folding the handkerchief she kept in her pocket delicately. The boy beside Terence chuckled, patting his shoulder.

"Well, at least if they sleep now, they won't start nodding off at the welcoming dinner."

Yrene snorted. "Impossible. Aelin's court makes for the finest entertainment."

He grinned, and then turned back to the leather-bound book in his pale hands, scribbling in the margins with a thin lead pencil and furrowing his brow in concentration.

Unearthly beauty. That's what Castoran was. Unearthly beauty, with a face like piercing ice and a mind like sharp steel. His moon-white hair still held a bluish hue, even in the orange light of the ever-fading sun. Across the pages of his book, his eyes were like darting flashes of cool sapphire, noting every detail, taking in every kernel of information. A prince of ice, with traces of that cold magic roiling in his veins, and yet as outwardly kind as Silba herself.

The Crown Prince of Adarlan. The light of his father's life. And the unmoving glacier to his mother's unrelenting river current.

He was younger than Lyanna, just past his thirteenth birthday. And yet he harbored a fierce intelligence, beyond his years. So much so that Terrin had taken an immediate interest in him, and often whisked the boy away to his personal study at Westfall Manor whenever he visited. Not that Castoran seemed to mind. If anything, he often came out of that study grinning like mad, the gears of his mind grinding, his hands powdered with chalk. No doubt having scrawled countless mathematical conceptualizations and the like on Terrin's blackboard.

He was like Dorian in that way.

But Castoran, Yrene reminded herself, was also the son of Manon Blackbeak. And he could be just as ruthless, just as aloof. Just as fearsome. Just as deadly.

He wasn't usually one to spar. Yet she had seen him do so before, with Ava Galathynius, who was seemingly the only one who could coax a fight out of him. And whenever that fight came out...

Yrene shut out the thought. She loved Castoran. Adored him. As did Chaol, and their children.

No matter that he was half witch, or that he so thoroughly concealed that cold-blooded part of him. She loved him.

And she left it at that.

The sun dipped and dimmed, the horizon slowly swallowing it. Orynth was still ways away. Darkness crept over the sky, staining it orange. Then pink. Then a lovely indigo. Then the deepest blue. And with Castoran's grumble at the lack of light, which rendered him unable to read, Yrene let Chaol's warmth envelop her, let the carriage lull her, and fell into a light sleep.

Only to be roused what seemed like moments later by a smiling Lyanna. She shook Yrene's knee and sighed, placing a delicate hand on the carriage window and making a good show of looking outside with longing. Yrene knew that longing was only half-feigned. "Oh, sweet Orynth. I have missed you."

For it indeed, Yrene's eyes confirmed as she sat up and wiped at her face, was that grand city of wonder and beauty that greeted them.

There it was. A shining beacon in a night-blackened world. A glittering swath of fabric laid on the grass-carpeted earth.

Orynth.

Even after all the visits she'd payed it, after all these years, it still managed to steal the breath from her lungs. Possibly because its queen had only made it better since she'd begun her reign. Filled it with life and joy and light. Light from her fire. Light from her heart.

Lyanna grinned and shook a still-sleeping Terence's shoulder, telling him to "Wake up, wake _up_."

"Hm?" He sat up sharply, startled to consciousness by Lyanna's ministrations. He rubbed his face, blinking at Yrene with those golden eyes. Those lovely eyes. Lovelier than her own, she'd say, though they were very nearly the same.

"You were clearly tired," she said, giving him a little smirk. "Have you not been resting well, darling?"

She knew he hadn't been. Though not for any nightmare or nefarious thing. But for a red-haired girl with angelite eyes who worked in Rifthold's palace, whose silky singing voice and graceful dancing had her in high demand for grand parties, and who shared her son's fondness for story-telling and tale-weaving. Along with his bed.

Of course, she'd never stumbled upon the girl at Westfall Manor. But she'd heard enough of their midnight escapades from her and Chaol's bedroom to know: quite a few nights out of the week, neither of them got their fill of sleep. Though the girl certainly got her fill of something _else_.

Chaol laughed beside her, picking up on the silent jab well enough and arching a brow. "Trouble sleeping, son?"

Castoran grinned wickedly, his blindingly white teeth flashing in the dark, quick mind undoubtedly piecing it together. "Oh, poor Terence," he mocked, pushing out his lip in a pout. "Would you like me to concoct a sedative for you? You must be _exhausted_." Chaol laughed again.

"Shut up, all of you," her son said, shoving the prince's head, an irritated look on his face. With the ghost of a smile.

Castoran only shoved back, cackling as Lyanna began to snicker as well.

Yrene chuckled, savoring the moment, this precious moment as her family laughed together. Her beautiful, wonderful family. Not perfect, as no one's was. But wondrous enough that she leaned forward and kissed Terence's cheek before he could bat her away, kissed Lyanna's and Castoran's foreheads, and kissed Chaol's hand, entwining her fingers tightly with his and setting it on her lap.

"I wonder what sort of surprises Orynth has in store for us this time," she said.

For there was one every time they visited. Some new addition to the heart of the city. Like that school, that grand school where Orynth now offered excellent public education to its massive gaggle of children. Or perhaps some new breed of citizens. As if it could get stranger than Fae brought in from the other corner of the earth, or marvelous creatures summoned by an array of magic-wielders. And sometimes, some new family members, Yrene thought with no small amount of excitement.

It had first been Aedion and Lysandra, their new little additions sending Yrene's heart soaring. And then Elide—_Elide_—and Lorcan. She still smiled at that memory, when she had almost barreled the Lady of Perranth to the ground with her embrace, lips unable to stop their beaming. Then near-scolding Elide for not writing about it in her letters. And when Terence and Lyanna had met the twins, Gwen and Gaveon Ashryver, had met Kathryn-Marie Lochan... it was the most precious thing she had ever seen.

And then... the additions that had not been a surprise at all. Usually the reason for Yrene's visits, in fact.

Aelin.

Aelin, in her immortal Fae body, became pregnant.

It had taken years, yes. But Aelin had always been one to defy the odds. Had always roared at those who said she was incapable, that certain things were impossible. And when the message came to Westfall Manor, the message that said Aelin was nearing her final month of that first pregnancy, Yrene had been stunned. Stunned, and then filled with complete and utter elation.

So Yrene came to Orynth. To a city missing a puzzle piece, but had never quite realized it. And when Yrene again returned home, Orynth was complete. Complete with a squalling newborn more powerful than half the court named Ava Whitethorn Galathynius.

Chaol squeezed her hand. "Brace yourselves," he told their family. "It'll be ruckus. The royal children are a mad lot."

Yrene laughed. Ruckus indeed. Because after Ava, Rendyll came. And then Reavan. Then Amora, who was perhaps the sweetest and the only sane one, despite being the youngest.

For now, anyway. Yrene had come again, as she had for all of Aelin and Rowan's children. Because there was another yet to come. One more life to bring into Orynth. One more light into their world.

Lyanna huffed, rolling her eyes. "I quite enjoy their company, Father."

Chaol scoffed. "Only because you're half-mad, too," he said solemnly, eyeing her with mock disappointment. She only stuck out her tongue at him, linked her arm with Terence again, and stared out as the carriage began the climb over the hills before the plain of Theralis.

Yrene would have studied her more, were her eyes not drawn to the distant monuments that were now just visible in the heavy dark. Those ones that jutted out from the plain like lances, reaching toward the sky—the ones that she could never _not_ look at. The ones that she knew Chaol also bowed his head toward, a silent show of respect. Of thanks and homage.

They stood in a massive circle, wreathed in small grey stones and undying flowers—magic undoubtedly keeping them alive and lush and exquisite. Twelve beautiful white statues. Each hewn into a sword, with a long arrow laid atop it, the two weapons tied at the hilts and fletchings by a thin ribbon. Each bearing two names: that of the witch and that of the wyvern. It had been one of those lovely surprises several years go. To see them erected with such precise detail and care when Aelin had first demanded she and Chaol visit, to see the gratitude the people of Orynth held for the coven who sacrificed themselves to save them.

Nearer and nearer they drew, the carriage making its hefty pulls over the hills and leveling out on the massive plain. Her children knew. Knew that their parents were in that glittering city when the witch-tower had aimed its burning destruction at it. Knew that they very well would have never existed were it not for the Thirteen.

So Lyanna's face grew serious as they made the stretch across the field. Terence only stared. Castoran gently folded his still-open book shut, blinking at the monuments. At the only remnants of his mother's fabled companions, who no doubt had been watching him from the Afterworld since the moment he was born.

Slowly, they lumbered towards that ring of white stone. Then overtook it. Then passed it. Yrene knew the countless guards who rode outside their carriage were also looking. Also marveling.

"Did either of you ever meet them?" Castoran asked, blue eyes turned to her and Chaol.

Chaol grunted softly. "I did, once. Though it was far from pleasant." His eyes flashed, his mouth setting into a slight frown. No doubt remembering that frantic day, when Manon had dug her iron nails into his throat. Remembering the way her twelve sentinels had sneered in response. Bygones, Yrene supposed.

Castoran hummed. "My father tells me they were wicked—in the best way. Says they would have laughed at first sight of me. If only because they'd never have imagined that I would come to exist."

Yrene gave him a smile, patting his knee. "A shock, you were. But I think they would have loved you, in their own way. Would have given you rides on their wyverns, perhaps."

"Or would have taught you how to slay your enemies, more like it." Chaol remarked, and she squeezed his fingers in silent reprimand.

Castoran only blew out a breath through his nose and looked again to the statues. "When we depart," he muttered, "I should like to visit that memorial. Learn their names."

"Hasn't your mother ever told you them?" Lyanna blurted. Yrene cut her a sharp look.

But Castoran merely shrugged. "She doesn't like to speak of them. Puts a hole in her, I think."

A hole. Yes, Yrene thought. She recalled meeting the witch, up on the makeshift aerie of Orynth's palace. When she had embraced Manon, whose hard gold eyes had been empty and hollow. Hollow without her pack of witches with whom to share their victory against darkness.

Yet Manon had since found a new light. _Made_ her own light. Not one that replaced that of her Thirteen; Yrene supposed that absence would always remain. But one that Yrene knew filled her in a way that her sentinels possibly never would have been able to.

She smiled again at that light, still looking out towards the statues as the carriage furthered itself from them. "Then visit them we shall. But for now..." She looked to Chaol. Then to Terence and Lyanna. And then to the glimmering city growing closer and closer, its massive walls looming.

No—not looming.

Beckoning.

"For now we say hello to your Aunt Aelin."


	2. Welcome Dinner

Castoran Havilliard and the Westfalls pay a visit to Orynth.

disclaimer: sarah j. maas owns all (except for the new generation).

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The walls of the great city were inching closer, and he knew he probably should not have asked.

Castoran Crochan Blackbeak Havilliard kept his hands carefully relaxed around his leather-bound book. His mother had not spoken of them for a reason. Had perhaps wanted to protect the memory of them—to hold them close to her heart and guard them from the world, even if the world was peaceful now. Calm.

Though he supposed there were always those few bad eggs. It would have been naive to think there weren't a few individuals out there, somewhere in Erilea—witches and humans alike—who spat on the names of the Thirteen. The former disgusted with such a sacrifice. The latter having not forgotten how they had hunted and bedded and butchered men.

But if Castoran was being honest, he didn't really care about that. Only that the coven had saved his parents. Saved the world, really.

He sighed softly, thinking of the mother and father he had left in their respective lands. They had wanted to come, to see the birth of Aelin Galathynius's newest child. But his father's duties had kept him in Rifthold, his mother's rooting her to the Witch Kingdom.

The Witch Kingdom. No longer the Wastes, as he was told they had been called before he was born. Wastes, because the land had been dead, along with the hearts of its people.

But Wastes no more. His mother had seen to that.

Though he was born in and spent most of his time in Rifthold, he loved the Witch Kingdom. Loved its capital city and its residents and that glorious palace that few in the world rivaled. As it turned out, immortal beings who wished no longer to slaughter their way through life had quite a lot of time on their hands. Time to rebuild and mend. Time to heal.

He often wondered about his part in that healing process. For both his mother and father. A shock, Lady Yrene had said, meaning he'd certainly been unplanned. But he knew he was cherished. Adored. And so he tried to be that salve smoothed across the scars and gashes of their hearts, of their souls.

A shock, he'd been.

The thought made him smile. There were many things about him that had seemed impossible. Like the fact that he was born a son. For a common witchling alone was rare—but a Crochan _prince_? One in a million, Bronwen once told him. And his _magic_—it was a fraction of what his father possessed, but magic all the same.

That had sent the scholars at Rifthold scratching their heads. He could not have been a full witch, for those possessed no power, minus the Yielding. And there was also the matter of his blood: not quite blue... but not red either. Indigo. Near _violet_.

A hybrid that the world had never seen. An anomaly. The first and only of his kind.

He sighed through his nose and looked again to the great white walls, to the battlements growing larger and larger with each pull forward. He didn't visit Orynth as frequently as he would have liked. But he treasured each trip. He would do so now. Even... even if he harbored a small itch for it to be over, if only so he could see that memorial.

"Excited to see her, Cas?" Lyanna asked, wiggling her brows. Terence cracked a smile.

Castoran rolled his eyes. "It's not like that. She's eleven."

"What's a mere two years? Just you wait, until she's my age. She's looking to be quite the stunner." Lyanna smirked.

"Oh, poor Cassy," Terence sighed, a pitiful frown plastered on his lips. "Would you like me to give you some advice? You must be so _confused_."

"She's eleven," Castoran repeated, glaring at them both. "And she's just a friend."

"A friend who runs into your arms whenever she sees you. _Oh, Cas,_" he snickered, batting his eyelashes in a scornful impression. "_Teach me how to shoot. I'm sure you're just _wonderful _at it._"

"She knows how to shoot," Castoran snapped, "And Aelin will have your head on a pike if you ridicule her children."

"She will not. Aelin loves me." Terence grinned. Then winked. "Everyone does."

Castoran rolled his eyes again and ignored him, fixing his gaze to the world outside the carriage. To the southern gates now upon them.

Orynth.

The carriage bumped along the ancient road that led to the entrance, the soft _clip-clop_ of the horses carrying the assemblage of Adarlanian guards sounding outside the window. Protecting the Hand of the King and his family. Protecting their Crown Prince.

The Crown Prince of Adarlan, for only a queen would rule the his mother's kingdom. And so he sometimes wondered how old he'd be when his mother informed him he was to have a sister. Because the High Queen of the Crochans and Ironteeth _would_ have another witchling. A full witch, to inherit her land.

He would wait for the day when that came to pass.

They rolled to a stop before the massive gates, a smaller entrance carved within it to allow entry. Guards clad in deep green uniforms lined the battlements, the sides of the gates, all bearing gleaming swords and the stag crest upon their breast pockets. Torches smoldered in their brackets, dotting the white stone barrier, illuminating the inside of the carriage.

It was all of ten seconds before they were permitted to cross.

One of the many perks, Castoran supposed, of having Aelin Galathynius as a family friend. Immediate allowance into the city. And other special treatments, he smugly thought. Like his own personal chambers in her palace. Unrestricted access to her glorious kitchen and her magnificent library.

The carriage again lurched into motion, and then they were rolling across the threshold. He looked to the guards as they passed, stone-faced and poised to deal with any threat, any sudden danger. Which, if one thought about it, was rather unnecessary. For the Terrasen that Aelin and her court had rebuilt was as peaceful as any buzzing meadow or forest pond. The kingsflame that he hadn't failed to notice popping up every now and then during their journey was attestation to that.

He smiled a bit as Orynth swallowed them. Unsurprisingly, it was completely alive, as it consistently was, no matter the time of day or year. Always, he had long since noticed, it was brimming with activity. With magic-wielders providing little shows in the squares for children, or residents filing in and out of eating houses and taverns, or vendors yelling their wares—colorful little flames contained in glass jars, wondrous textiles of every hue, hot pots of drinking chocolate and sweet rolls of bread. Temples to the since-destroyed gods had been converted to banks and orphanages and businesses. There were new art establishments. Theaters. Moot halls. Beautiful inns. Shelters and bathhouses for the homeless. Patios with gurgling fountains for women to sun themselves.

Everything. Orynth had everything.

The Westfalls were as quiet as shadow. Marveling, he knew. Because though the city had been delightful the previous time they'd visited, it was even brighter now. Even more effervescent. Even more alive.

On and on, they rolled forth on the main street, watching the buzzing activity as they passed. There was every manner of people here: humans, Fae, demifae. He hadn't seen any witches, but Castoran had no doubt that there were a few hiding amongst the pale buildings and flitting crowds.

All cohabiting. Coexisting. Tranquilly.

A better world indeed.

But damn, if Orynth wasn't vast. Large enough that Castoran counted around an hour until the gates of the palace at last came into view, their carriage slowly weaving through the thick crowds—revelers celebrating for no particular reason. Just because they could, he supposed. But at last, he spied the white battlements and gates, standing proud and stark against the starry night sky. The massive towers and turrets glimmered with the lights of the city. _Those_ anyone could see from any point in Orynth, unlike the lower levels and the walls. So tall and sparkling they were, the opal stone like a beacon of light, welcoming any stranger from any land. Like the Torre Cesme in the North that had been built back in Rifthold, under the supervision of Lady Yrene. An extended hand.

_Come, and be accepted,_ they said.

The sight of it made him feel warm as they neared the castle grounds. Then paused before the lofty ingress, the smooth cobblestone street barely jostling them.

The guards posted there didn't so much as blink before they hauled open the giant doors—no doubt having been notified that the royal family was expecting them. Also perhaps informed of their arrival by some Fae in bird form from the city gates.

Again they pitched forth, up, up, up the road until they finally—_finally_—swayed to a halt. Right before the palace. Heartbeats passed in silence.

Then his uncle stood from his plush seat, ducking his head through the door as soon as one of their guards opened it. Sweet air swooped in—cool with the young spring and crisp with the night. Chaol hopped out, and Lady Yrene followed, taking his extended hand and folding it against the crook of his elbow. Terence exited next, then Lyanna. Until it was Castoran's turn to emerge, and he set his feet onto the first step leading to the castle's front doors.

The wind enveloped him immediately, and Terrasen's scent climbed up into his nostrils. Fresh, like a winter forest, even in the spring and summer.

They wasted no time in lingering. As soon as Castoran straightened his jacket and stretched out his legs, they were climbing the steps, and he waved for the guards to see themselves to the barracks. He welcomed the burn as it spread across his thighs, his calves. He'd spent far too long sitting, and the numbness that had settled over his body was an unwelcome one. Higher and higher they ascended, and then reached the immense oak doors, which were already wide open as they strode through. Wide open to reveal a gleaming hall, its light spilling out into the night, with floors so polished he could see his own reflection in them.

Open to reveal pillars and pristine walls and a plush carpet draping over the grand white stairwell that cut through the center of the shining room. It rose to a large landing, lined with a marble balustrade. And just beside the stairs, her silver gown shimmering, her right foot tapping, was—

"Cas!"

He couldn't fight the beam that broke out on his face. Couldn't think to even _try_ to prove Terence and Lyanna wrong as she flung herself at him.

Ava.

He laughed, embracing her tightly and breathing in her scent—lavender, with a hint of sweet, curling steam. He could practically _feel_ his cousins' smug little smiles, but he ignored them, giving Ava a squeeze across the back before pulling away.

She was grinning like mad, the twin braids tucked behind her pointed ears swaying as she spoke excitedly. "You, me. Armory." Her expression turned sly. "We'll see how well you've been practicing."

"Is that all I'm good for to you?" He made a show of looking incredulous. "Being your punching bag?"

"What else would males be good for?" She smirked, shoving his arm, pine-green eyes alight. He shoved right back.

Then a voice cut in, "Come now, you've had your time in the armory today, Ava."

Lady Yrene's smile was nothing short of lovely as she slid into Aelin Galathynius's waiting arms.

And there she was. Aelin, in all her regal glory, poised and graceful as she swished about, her face bright.

She was... glowing, Castoran thought, as he looked upon the Queen of Terrasen. Perhaps that was her magic, making her hair shine in golden tresses down her back, her skin radiant with the warmest light. Immortal—she was _immortal_, and still looked to be aged nineteen, her turquoise eyes free of any lines, skin smooth and flushed. She donned a flowing mint-green gown—one that cinched right under her chest to accommodate her rounded belly, a slender hand braced just above her navel.

Her kingsflame crown shifted against her brow as she smiled down at her abdomen. Then at Lady Yrene. "Been eating too many chocolates, I suppose."

The healer laughed, kissing the queen's cheeks before yielding Aelin to Chaol. He held her as best he could around her stomach, smiling cheerfully. "I would blame your court for allowing you to do so. Except you wouldn't listen to them, anyway."

A deep chuckle. "The world will turn on its head the day she heeds any of us."

Castoran turned to see King Rowan Whitethorn stride forth and put a hand on Aelin's back, a dozing child slumped against his shoulder, head tucked into his neck. He recognized her immediately: the dainty, silver-haired Amora.

The males clasped each other gently so as not to wake the girl, and Aelin grinned as she folded Terence and Lyanna into her arms. "Tell me, Terence," she said, eyes sparking with mischief. "How fares the Lady Rielle?"

He flushed a vivid pink before blowing out a chuckle. "Spying on me, are you, Aunt?"

She just winked, turning to Lyanna and mock-frowning. "You, I've no juicy details on."

"And it shall remain so," said Chaol, looking up from his crouch before the silver-headed boys, who had come out from their playing spot behind a large white pillar. Rendyll and Reavan.

The two families continued to greet each other, Ava skipping over to the Westfalls and giving them that little smirk before embosoming each one.

And then Aelin turned to Castoran, eyes glinting. She embraced him warmly, as did King Rowan and the boys. "Always a delight, you," the queen told him. "And your parents?"

"Disappointed to have missed this. But they have their duties."

Ava snorted. "Making you a sibling?"

He tried to hide his cringe, Aelin cutting her a sharp glace. "Their _respective_ duties, Ava," he sighed.

She only snickered, sidling up beside him and looking up at her mother. And gods' ashes, it was like Aelin was peering down at her reflection—albeit a younger, green-eyed one. But the brilliant golden locks, the slender nose, the biting _sarcasm_…

He did his best not to look at King Rowan, to give him a pitying glance for having to deal with them both. With two young boys and a toddling girl to boot. And _another_ yet to come.

Aelin tugged on Ava's hair, rolling her eyes and muttering, "You lunatic. Honestly, who raised you?"

Ava flashed her teeth, showing her sharp little canines. "Some queen. Not sure what her name was."

Aelin smacked her daughter's cheek with the end of one of her braids, turning to Lady Yrene. Who was now examining Reavan with that healer's frankness, checking for any oddity in the child she delivered. No doubt just having looked Rendyll and Amora over. Aelin scoffed. "I'll have you know, they're all in perfect health. Aren't you, my sweets?"

They smiled toothily at her, and Lady Yrene beamed softly. "So it seems. And you? How fares your newest?"

Aelin blew out a breath. "Oh, it's the usual. Kicks at all hours of the day. Insists on weighing eight entire pounds. Leaves absolutely no room for food. Doesn't allow me to wear my favorite gowns, which is just _sublime._"

A low laugh. "Must be torturous for you, then," King Rowan said, gently kissing his wife's temple before placing a broad, tattooed hand on Rendyll's shoulder.

"So," he announced, "You all must be hungry."

Ava nodded vigorously. Castoran elbowed her.

The king's lips curled upward. "Then let's eat."

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She would probably have to wait until tomorrow. She'd read the words in her mother's eyes: _Leave him. He is likely weary from the road._

Ava Whitethorn Galathynius tried her best not to pout as she followed her parents through the winding halls of the palace, Castoran keeping pace beside her.

She was practically itching for a spar with him. A few lessons with her father had emboldened her, and she wanted to demonstrate those new maneuvers while they were fresh in her mind, while they lingered in her muscles and bones. She couldn't help the way her fingers twitched towards the little dagger carefully hidden beneath the silvery sleeve of her gown.

A gift from her both the king and queen, for her last birthday. Her very first blade, small and engraved with little flames and rolls of wind, a tiny emerald sparkling at its hilt to match her irises. It was thin enough that it was easily concealed, strapped to her forearm. But a flash of her father's eyes had warned her to keep it tucked away.

Reavan prattled to Lyanna behind her, gripping the girl's hand and swinging it as they walked. Rendyll walked beside Terence, the two of them swapping opinions on the latest plays and their musical scores. Amora still dozed blissfully on their father. She was certainly in for a surprise when she awoke; she adored Lady Yrene.

The healer padded along gracefully beside her husband, chatting with Ava's mother. She wondered if it had ever been strange between the four of them—her parents and the Westfalls—considering her mother had... history with Lord Chaol. Her uncle Aedion had whispered as much during a family dinner months ago. Of course, he'd been slightly inebriated, so it was possible he could have just been spouting nonsense.

She refrained from rolling her eyes and cast a sidelong glance at Castoran, who still gripped his leather book. She knew he probably didn't even realize he still had it.

Smirking, she took it from his hand, flipping it to read the title. "_The Bosyf Theory: Empirical Evidence and Supporting Experiments._" She narrowed her eyes and gave him a frown, turning her nose up at him—or at least tried to, his taller stature making it more difficult than she'd anticipated. "I forgot how dull you are."

He answered her with a half-smile. "And I forgot how daft you are."

She made a show of gaping. "Is that any way to speak to the Crown Princess of Terrasen?"

Castoran laughed, pushing her shoulder. "Oh, pardon me, Your Highness. I meant to say, I forgot how utterly brilliant... you aren't."

Ahead, her parents chuckled, the Westfalls following suit. "Charming, you two," her mother said over a shoulder, nodding to Lord Chaol. "Heartwarming to see the futures of our kingdoms are in _such_ good hands."

The Hand's mouth twisted up, and Lady Yrene flashed a grin at the two heirs, a knowing gleam in her eyes as she looked between them.

Ava bit back her scowl. Gods' ashes, she didn't like Castoran like _that_. It was just fun to knock him on his backside in the training ring down in the armory. Though, if she was completely honest, it was usually him knocking _her_ on her backside.

Whatever their families expected, it _wasn't_ going to happen. He was older, he was far too intelligent—_she_ wanted to be the cleverer one—and if Ava thought about it, she wouldn't be too keen on having Queen Manon Blackbeak as a mother-in-law.

But at least Castoran was an excellent friend. And quite the sparring partner.

"Tomorrow," he promised, as if reading her thoughts. "We'll go down to the armory. And we'll see if _you've_ been practicing."

She eyed him wickedly, reaching up and tugging on a bone-white strand of hair.

They reached the smaller dining hall, the one they always used, where they ate their meals as a family. It wasn't as luxurious as the main hall, but held a coziness to it that never failed to warm Ava's bones. Dimmer, the light was, produced by torches and small little blooms of fire that did not burn, courtesy of her mother. In the center stood a long polished wooden table, set with gold plates and crystal goblets and silky cloths and surrounded by high-backed wooden chairs, sturdy enough that it took quite a bit of effort from her to scoot them around.

Homey. Welcoming.

Her mother ushered them all in, taking her usual place at the head of the table and waving to the servants posted around the room. Ava's father situated himself at her right, Lord Chaol and Lady Yrene to her left, and their children taking to the places beside them.

Ava grabbed Castoran by the elbow and hauled him to the seat next to hers, where Rendyll usually sat. Her brother didn't take kindly to having his spot stolen, and scowled. But she only stuck her tongue out at him, pushing Castoran down into the lofty chair before settling in her own.

The servants went to work immediately, pushing around carts of steaming plates. Roast lamb, she noted, the wafting scent filling her nose. Lamb and… was that wild rice?

The plates were set before each of them, the servants filling their goblets with water and wine as they went. Ava bared her teeth at one of the attendants, just because she could, cackling as the slender girl ducked behind her curtain of mousy hair.

Beside her, her father gently, _gently_, peeled Amora off him, setting her in her smaller, higher chair between his and her mother's. He laid her silver head on the table, pressing a light kiss into her hair. "Didn't sleep much last night," he muttered, eyes crinkling. "Too excited for your arrival, Yrene."

The lady smiled beautifully as she said, "I'll admit I was looking forward to seeing her as well."

"Her and not us?" Rendyll rumbled indignantly.

"No," Ava said, picking at her fingernails. "I'm afraid you're too vexatious for her taste."

"What does 'vexatious' mean, Mama?" Reavan asked.

Lady Yrene laughed, her husband's cheeks wrinkling with amusement. "It means 'irritating', little one. Which Rendyll most definitely is _not_." She shot Ava a playful glare. "Forgive me, Ren. I meant I was looking forward to seeing all of you."

"Vexatious," Reavan mumbled thoughtfully. "Mama, am I vexatious?"

"Only when you refuse to eat your greens." She winked.

He frowned, clearly not amused. Instead, he looked to their father, silvery eyebrows furrowed. "I'm vexatious?"

The king sighed. "No, Reav, Mama was jo—"

"You are when you steal my things," said Rendyll. "And pick off of my desert plate when I'm not looking. And climb into my bed when you can't sleep. And—"

"Like you don't climb into _my_ bed whenever you've had a nightmare," Ava cut in, smirking.

Rendyll's pointed ears went scarlet. "Name the last time I did that."

Reavan was looking close to tears, his face reddening. "I don't want to be vexatious."

"_Tsk tsk tsk. _Do you see what you cause, Ren? You make him cry an awful lot now that I think about it think about it." She shook her head.

"Mother said he was irritating _first_," he nearly shouted.

Terence flinched, eyeing Amora. And sure enough, she began to stir, soft arms lifting her from her slouch on the table.

"She was _joking_, weren't you, Aelin?" Their father stroked their sister's hair, trying to soothe her back into a drowse.

But she didn't comply. Amora sat up, nose crinkling. Their mother ran a few fingers down her cheek, laughter dancing in her turquoise eyes. "Well, you _can_ be difficult when you turn your nose up at your peas," she said to Reavan. "But yes, my love, I was joking."

His eyes were rimmed with red. He opened his mouth, a retort undoubtedly on his lips, but—

"Ah." Amora breathed, tiny nostrils flaring, strange blue eyes narrowing to slits.

Their family froze. The room grew silent.

And then their father grinned, turning to his two eldest. "Who wants a go?"

Ava's hand shot into the air. And Rendyll's did the same, much to her annoyance. "You had it last time," she growled.

"I did not. Tell her, Father."

"Do you think I'm vexatious?" Reavan asked Lyanna. She laughed, shaking her head.

Ava hissed, "He has nothing to tell me, because it's _my turn_."

"Ah." Amora let out.

"Alright," their mother said. "A coin toss."

"No time for a coin toss, Aelin."

She ignored him, fishing a small silver disk from her pocket and sending it flying towards the center of the table.

"Ah."

Ava shrieked, "I call heads!"

"No, wha—och! Fine! Tails!"

It soared, flipped midair, and then—

_Plink. Plink. Plink._

"Ah."

Rendyll lurched across the table to look at the coin—

"Tails! Yes!"

"What? N—"

"_Ah._"

Rendyll thrust his hands out, forming a bubble of hard air around their sister, the space between his brows shrinking.

"Steady, Ren," their father instructed. "Concentrate."

"Ah. _Ah...choo!_"

Amora errupted in a whirlwind of azure flame, filling the little bubble and making its edges shimmer. The burning tongues pushed against the barrier, cracking it, breaking it—

Rendyll tensed, squeezing his eyes shut and adding layer upon layer of extra protection on his invisible sphere, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead.

Amora's fire seemed enraged at being contained, furious at the confinement. It hurtled itself upon the shield, looking for a weak spot. Searching for that site where it would buckle under the scorching pressure. But Ava… dammit, she had to hand it to Rendyll. Not an ember escaped his globe of air.

It burned and burned as Amora coughed softly, and then...

Their sister wiped her small nose, and the flames began to recede. Until all that remained was a toddler and her charred seat, her butter-yellow gown burned away. Their mother extended a hand to grasp their father's cloak, wrapping it around Amora before scooping her up and setting her on her lap, careful to set the girl around her distended belly.

The Westfalls were all staring at the youngest Galathynius, wide-eyed.

Silent.

Until Lord Chaol burst out laughing and said to his family, "I told you. Ruckus."

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~ feedback is deeply appreciated!

xo


	3. Fireflies

a. n.

hi, a list of characters and ages has been requested, and so i shall deliver:

Terence Westfall: 18, son to Yrene Towers and Chaol Westfall

Lyanna Westfall: 16, daughter to Yrene Towers and Chaol Westfall

Castoran Havilliard: 13, son to Manon Blackbeak and Dorian Havilliard

Gwen Ashryver: 16, daughter to Lysandra Ennar and Aedion Ashryver

Gaveon Ashryver: 16, son to Lysandra Ennar and Aedion Ashryver

Kathryn-Marie Lochan: 15, daughter to Elide Lochan and Lorcan Lochan

Ava Whitethorn Galathynius: 11, daughter to Aelin Galathynius and Rowan Whitethorn

Rendyll Whitethorn Galathynius: 9, son to Aelin Galathynius and Rowan Whitethorn

Reavan Whitethorn Galathynius: 5, son to Aelin Galathynius and Rowan Whitethorn

Amora Whitethorn Galathynius: 3, daughter to Aelin Galathynius and Rowan Whitethorn

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Lyanna harbors a secret. | Aelin and Rowan meet their new baby.

disclaimer: sarah j. maas owns all (except for the new generation).

༺═──────────────═༻

An hour and a half later, and she was still laughing. Dinner was as delightful as anyone could expect it to be, though she had hardly eaten—Reavan had commanded much of her attention during the meal, mostly through his tearful fits and his need for reassurance. But she happily indulged him, as she thought him precious beyond what her heart could bear.

Lyanna Westfall sighed wistfully, staring up at the canopy of her bed and watching as dust motes floated through the air of her candlelit chamber.

Her very own chamber. A beautiful space, filled with the things she loved and positioned high in one of the upper levels of the castle. Aelin had provided her with a marvelous view of Orynth, her lovely balcony overlooking the shining city.

Perfect for drawing inspiration.

Her chamber was a light and airy one, with walls the white-blue of sea foam and the floor a multi-colored pattern of wooden panels. Her massive rounded bed was situated in the center of the room, ruffled quilt spilling over the edges and several columns holding up the canopy, which was draped with gauzy fabrics that billowed about whenever she opened the balcony doors. A large tarp covered a good portion of her space, protecting the floor from paint, which sat in ceramic pots in the giant shelf next to the beautiful easel.

And the paintings…

They made her heart stumble, even if she'd made them herself.

The ones depicting her family and their home were on display about the room, hanging from the walls and leaning against the furniture. _Those _she didn't hide.

But the ones she'd stuffed beneath the mattress, stashed in between the sliding doors of her closet, rolled up and shoved within boots…

She'd seen that little spark in her aunt's eyes.

_You, I've no juicy details on._

She did. She _did,_ and Lyanna didn't know whether to be relieved or nervous. Relieved, because at least _somebody _knew. Keeping it to herself had been agony—she wanted to talk about it, wanted to gush…

But whether Aelin would keep it to herself, she had no idea. The queen was closer to Lyanna's mother than most, and the fact that they were currently together somewhere in the castle—checking on the babe—made her stomach twist.

It took all her self-control to stay rooted to the spot, golden gaze glued to the ceiling.

It was the not knowing… It gnawed at her insides, made her bite the skin around her fingernails clean off, prompted her foot to tap in an anxious tick. It was not knowing if her mother will have learned her secret by the end of the night. Not knowing if her father would come storming into her bedroom at first light tomorrow.

There were no more gods. She could not pray that her aunt held onto that little tidbit of information. And she couldn't very well barge into the queen's bedchamber, demanding a moment alone with her and interrupting that completely wonderful, completely _private _moment between mother and unborn child. Not to mention, her own mother would be furious.

She had no choice but to lie here and wait. She would not pace, for she'd long since learned it did not help her. And she couldn't paint or draw or sculpt—not with her frayed nerves.

Lie here and wait.

It might as well have been torture.

And Terence… oh, he was a lucky bastard. Able to flaunt the girl he loved, able to _bed _her with little to no consequences. Not a damned word, their father had said on the matter. Not one.

But if it were _her…_

She scowled, flipping onto her stomach and groaning into the mattress.

If it were her… Perhaps her mother would not mind. Would not quite possibly send her to Eyllwe, to the very opposite end of the continent, just to get her away from Terrasen. But her father? There was no telling what he would do, what he would say.

And Lyanna knew. She _knew _she was his darling girl, the light of his life. She saw it in his eyes whenever he spoke to her, whenever he pressed a kiss to her face, or taught her some new swordplay maneuver. And she loved him, yes, but…

Her fingers mindlessly reached for her pillow. For the scrap of paper folded within the hole in the feathery mass, the creased lines of it worn from her reading and rereading.

It was a tiny thing, barely bigger than her small palm. There were three stains on it—from her tears, mostly. Though there was one at the very bottom, in the shape of her lips and the same color as a summer strawberry, from when she had kissed the name so meticulously signed.

_My lady,_

_I know we said it was only fun. That we would go back to our lives and forget each other._

_That you would go back to Adarlan and I would remain here, serving my queen and acting as if I'd never met you._

_But to hell with our agreement. I want to see you again._

_And I hope I'm not alone in that regard._

_Felix_

She'd wanted the same, but feared he didn't. And when she'd gotten the message in Rifthold, so carefully tucked away in the pocket of a beautiful dress her aunt had sent her…

She'd sprinted to her room and painted him. Painted his black-brown hair, his chocolate eyes. His gleaming smile and his thick, dark eyelashes.

She still had that one, pasted to the back of one of her depictions of the new marble castle in Rifthold.

They'd passed last summer together. Aelin had just recently employed him, a former street urchin, to be her eyes and ears and inform her of the comings and goings of her city. And Lyanna and Terence had been visiting, spending much of their time with the royal children and venturing out into Orynth to experience its nightlife.

She'd spotted Felix in a tavern leaning against a towering mass of a man, singing a bawdy song and laughing while he did it. And by the way the crowd sang along with him, listened as he spoke…

He was the type of person people followed. He could sway their opinions, bend them to his will.

Charismatic. Charming.

And he was hers.

He was _hers_, and the thought was nothing short of breath-taking.

Breath-taking, like that moment when he'd walked up to her in that tavern. Asked her for a dance. Kissed her at the end of it.

Fun. _Fun._

_That _thought was laughable. Never had it been just fun for her. Or rather, perhaps during that dance. But after? When she'd ridden back to the palace in a daze and wondered if she'd ever stumble upon him again?

And when she _did_, when she'd literally run into him on the way to _this_ chamber from the dining hall…

She remembered every detail. Every word exchanged.

_You, _he'd said, blinking.

_You're… from the... how did you get in here?_

_I'm employed by the queen. How did _you _get in here?_

_I'm… her niece. I'm visiting from Adarlan for a couple weeks._

_Weeks?_

_Yes._

A little smile, made all the more gorgeous by twin dimples in each cheek.

_Then I shall hope to see you more often, Lady…_

_Lyanna. Just Lyanna._

_Hm. _Another little smile. _Until next time… Lyanna._

And they'd had that next time. When he took her for a ride into Oakwald and kissed her again. And another next time, when he'd shown her a small square that was especially lively at night, and danced with her until her head was spinning. And another, when he'd said he wanted to keep seeing her, but not courting her. Wanted to spend time with her, but not in the way that actual lovers would.

She'd agreed. If only to continue seeing _him_.

And when the day came for her to return home, he'd kissed her one last time, smirked, and said, "I do hope I've made this a summer worth remembering."

Then he left.

And she had so much to say. So much to tell him. But she'd held it in. Reminded herself that she'd forget about him. Find someone else in Rifthold, and forget about the boy with dimples and dark hair and a booming laugh and swift, graceful feet.

Except she didn't forget. And she'd wanted to rip her hair out in frustration.

But...

But then the letter came. _He_ hadn't forgotten. And he wanted them to meet again.

So she'd come. In these past months, she'd come. Twice. And during both visits, she showed him all of her, showed him her paintings and her favorite dresses and her manner of swordplay.

He'd said it was beautiful. That _she _was beautiful.

And—

A soft knock at her door. She stiffened.

"Hello? Are you there, my lady?"

She froze completely. Oh, gods' ashes, _no._

_Speak of the Valg kings._

She lunged from her bed and stumbled to the nearby vanity table.

Of course. Of _course_ this would happen to _her_—

"Lyanna?"

"Hold on," she whispered, quickly rubbing at her cheeks, making them flush with blood. "Hold on."

"I just heard your family was visiting. I couldn't _not_ come."

A low laugh.

She swallowed, brushing her dress and smoothing her hair. She was lucky she hadn't eaten much. Otherwise, the nerves pooling in her stomach would quite possibly have prompted her to vomit.

It took a few moments. Or an eternity, she didn't know. But when she finally decided she looked decent enough, she took a steadying breath, willing her palms to stay dry.

_He's just a boy. Just a boy. Just a boy._

_Just a boy who you might love._

A slow walk to the polished oak doors. A halt just before them. A heartbeat. Two heartbeats.

It would be the first time she'd see him in two months. She'd have to pull him in quickly, lest her family see him lingering in front of her chambers. Unless they'd already done so...

She blinked, placing a few fingers on the handle. And then cracked the door open.

And… there he was.

A sly little grin. "Hello, lovely."

༺═──────────────═༻

This one was brutal.

Her others had come with their difficulties, yes. Ava had made her want to hurl her guts up whenever she so much as got a whiff of food. Rendyll had sapped the energy from her muscles, making her pass out the second she sank into bed. Reavan had sent her brain into a tizzy, and every hour of every day, she'd found some new reason to bawl. And Amora…

Amora had brought about the most vivid nightmares she'd ever had. Nightmares where her children were strapped to iron tables by a brown-haired male with a spider's smile. Or where they were shackled to foul, other-worldly creatures by hideous black collars. Or where a red-haired man with silver eyes snuck into their bedrooms and slit their throats—retribution for a grand scheme to have him assassinated and steal his riches.

But then, she always awoke to a tattooed face and soft lips and those comforting words: _Your family is here with you. Your family is safe. You are safe._

Yet even her mate couldn't help much when _this_ child seemed to be sucking the life out of her, shoving weakness into her bones, draining her so thoroughly it was a wonder she still shone with life whenever she looked in the mirror.

She'd used her magic to put on a façade—one that even her family could do little to see through. But if she hadn't, if she allowed herself to look how she _felt…_

Rowan would bind her to their bed and insist on handling her duties himself. Not to mention the _fussing… _she wouldn't have it.

Just a week. A _week _left, and their new babe would arrive, and her body could begin healing. Along with her frayed mind.

Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius loosed a breath through her nose, stroking Rowan's hair as he rested his head in the crook of her neck. It was moments like these where she could let down that mask, when not even he was looking. And she knew the bruises under her eyes became more prominent, her skin slightly sallow, her hair the tiniest bit more dull. She kept her magic ready, kept it just up her sleeve, for Yrene and her son would peek through the door to their suite at any moment.

"Are you hoping for anything?" Rowan rumbled, splaying a hand over her belly.

Feeling the life there. Saying hello to his child.

"Are you?"

"I've already gotten everything I could ever have hoped for. A life with you. Beautiful children, with you."

She tugged on a strand of hair, smirking. "But you hope it's another boy?"

A soft chuckle. "We don't have a boy with your hair yet. I'd like to."

"You know, all our children favor you in one form or another. Ava has your eyes, Rendyll your hair. Reavan is your own little copy, and Amora—"

"Amora has my hair as well, yes. But she's different from the both of us. Her eyes…"

The eyes of sapphire and mystery. Like Dorian's, except he knew where his came from—the ancient king, Gavin Havilliard. Amora's were a puzzle they had yet to solve, an evidence to some lost branch from one of their families they had not researched or explored.

"Strange, our little one," she murmured, smiling. "But lovely, she's going to be."

"They're all going to be lovely. I suppose we should be delighted—except it's always the lookers that get into the most trouble."

He pinched her side in emphasis, and she smacked his head.

Yes, she thought. Their children were a sight that never failed to steal her breath, never failed to fill her with such pride and unending happiness. She would have loved them no matter what they looked like, but that they were _that_ gorgeous, _that_ bewitching…

Ava and Rendyll were sure to break hearts. Reavan and Amora would be impossibly charming, with their sweet natures and light-filled eyes.

And this new babe…

Aelin didn't know what it would look like. But she held no doubt it would be beautiful. Like its father. Like its brothers and sisters.

Like the children of all their friends.

Lyanna and Terence were most definitely a sight. Gaveon and Gwen were such pretty things, with the slender features of what she assumed was Lysandra's true form and Aedion's coloring. Kathryn-Marie Lochan was like a sleek little panther, graceful and exquisite like her mother, swift and deadly like her father. And _Castoran_…

Aelin was not surprised when he'd grown to be possibly the most enchanting boy she'd ever encountered. With Dorian for a father—_Manon_ for a mother…

No. She was not surprised at all.

All wonderful little creations, to inherit the Westfall fortune and the Torre in the North, Caraverre, Perranth, Adarlan. To lead on, for when…

She tried to shut out the thought. But it wrapped around her mind, making her hand in Rowan's hair still, her heart stumble.

He heard it. She fumbled for her magic, yanked on it to breathe life into her again as he looked up, brows furrowed.

"What's wrong?"

It was habit to open her mouth—to tell him it was nothing. To tell him it was just nerves, about the new babe, about how Amora would take to being replaced as the youngest. But…

But the sheer love that she saw in his eyes as she beheld him… and guilt pulled at her gut. No more secrets. After her coronation all those years ago, she'd promised. Nothing kept from each other, nothing hidden.

The mask didn't count; he knew she was exhausted, but indulged her by keeping silent about it. She only held it around him so he wouldn't worry so much, wouldn't fret.

So she said, "I just… What happens fifty years from now, when…?"

"When what?"

Her mouth went dry, and she stared. Looked deep into that pine-green gaze. _When Dorian is gone. When Chaol and Yrene are gone. Elide and Lorcan, Aedion and Lysandra… when all the people who fought in that war, who understand the _nightmare _that it was…_

_You will always have me, Fireheart. And Manon and Fenrys. You will never be alone again._

The hand on her belly slid up to her heart, and he leaned in to kiss her—

A soft knock.

"Aelin? Are you ready?"

Yrene.

"Yes, come in."

The massive door to their suite cracked open, and Yrene's gold-brown head poked through. She took in the proximity of Rowan's face, the way his hand nearly cupped her breast, and flushed pink.

"I could come back later," she said, a soft smile playing on her lips.

Aelin smirked. "No, come."

The lady nodded and strode through the threshold…

By herself, a small satchel hanging from her shoulder.

"And Terence?" Aelin asked.

Yrene rolled her eyes, glowing irises shining with amusement. "We've been on the road for quite a while. He wanted to write a letter to Rielle."

Rowan chuckled, hand still upon her chest. "Ah, yes. The dancer."

"That's the one. Been watching us, Aelin?" A raise of her eyebrows.

She gave the healer a sleepy little smile. "You didn't expect me to just leave you alone, did you?"

"Of course you wouldn't. So long as it's just friendly concern," Yrene said, eyeing them both. "Now let's make sure you and your babe are both alright. How do you feel? The truth now, Aelin. I know you're faking it with that magic of yours."

Well, then.

She couldn't help but sigh, peering at her mate and again running a few fingers through his hair. He waited for her to continue, removing his hand from her heart and placing it on her belly once more.

Might as well.

"This one… this is the most difficult one I've carried so far," she admitted.

Neither of them didn't so much as blink.

"It drains me," she went on, "Everyday, it drains me."

Yrene, looking most unsurprised, nodded and stepped closer to place a warm hand on Aelin's forehead. Then to set two fingers on the inside of her wrist. She could feel Yrene sending out threads of magic, warm little spindles seeping deep into her skin. It made her flesh tingle, her muscles fill with soothing comfort.

"Your pulse isn't weak, but your heartbeat is a little too quick for my liking. Have you been exercising?"

She made a show of frowning. "Is that even a question?"

Yrene rolled her eyes. "Right. Well..." She took a breath, removing her satchel from her shoulder, her hands glowing to life in shimmering light. "There's something new I've been wanting to try. I think you'll like it."

"What is it?" Rowan asked, glancing at her hands. Curious.

"Just watch."

She motioned for him to remove the palm on Aelin's abdomen, and then slowly, so slowly, set her own hands just where his had been.

And then a hot flare. A breath of life, a call to waking. Yrene's magic was a comforting warmth Aelin could not describe as it sunk into her further and further, exploring and probing. Assessing and gauging. She could make out its tendrils gently folding around her womb, and then—

Aelin held in her gasp as the magic broke—_broke_—into thousands of pieces, penetrating the walls of her womb. Being _swallowed_ as they burrowed and burrowed, until…

Until they surrounded the babe. Every inch of it. They covered the child in little particles of magic, like... like a second skin.

"Let's see if this works," Yrene muttered.

"What do you feel?" Rowan rumbled in her ear. She just batted him away, focus fixed on the living power enveloping their child.

With furrowed brows, Yrene raised her hands, guiding them through the air, holding them clawed like a cage so as to command her magic to _hold_, to retain its shape.

And—

Aelin could only gape.

Gape as a glittering mass rose from her body, emerging from her skin, from the gauzy fabric of her dress.

A thousand fireflies, all forming—

"Aelin," Rowan nearly choked.

She nodded. Only nodded.

She found her throat blocked. Because it was _moving_. It was kicking, tiny arms twitching, little head jerking. It was… it was _dreaming._

And Yrene was smiling, although her jaw was clenched with the effort of keeping the figure inact in the air.

She had never seen anything like it. Yes, she'd seen each of her children, so small and needy, once they'd come wailing out... But to see a babe while it was still nestled within her, while she still gave it life, still fed it with her own body and protected it with her own being...

"Aelin, look," Rowan ground out. "It's a boy."

Again, she nodded. Indeed, she thought as she looked upon the babe, her vision blurring.

Her newest boy.

"And he's big," said the healer. "Going to take after his father in that aspect, hm?"

Like each of their sons. All of them, who would one day grow as large and healthy as her mate.

Rowan let out a broken laugh, his fingers reaching out to brush against the child's head, just above his tiny—_tiny_—pointed ears. The orbs of light danced at the contact, vibrating as he stroked.

"Can he—can he _feel_ that?"

Yrene nodded. "Half of my power is inside you now, Aelin. This here is the other half. They're twin images, and any sort of stimulation on one will affect the other. That's how this image is able to move. And… how he can sense your touch, Rowan."

Her mate blinked, gaze transfixed on the infant made of light.

"He can hear, too. Even without my magic, and perhaps some small sounds. He can hear outside."

And then it was Aelin's turn to choke out a laugh. She'd known that, of course. Or at least suspected, when Rendyll would go mad inside her at every musical note, every ringing chord.

But he could _hear _her voice, even as a soft whisper, _hear _Rowan's—

"Hello, my love," she mumbled. "How strong you are."

A twitch of his small fingers. Her eyelashes felt wet.

"Giving your mama a hard time, are you, little one?" Rowan whispered, his own eyes glistening in the glittering light.

"Probably itching to come out," said Yrene with a beam. "He's upset to be contained for so long."

Her mate sighed, fingers still stroking. "Soon, little one. Very soon."

The child stirred again, golden orbs shifting.

"He's perfect, Aelin. Good heart, good muscles. And his dreaming is testament to a promising mental health."

Her heart might have burst at the word. "Perfect," Aelin breathed.

Perfect.

Yrene nodded, locked hands starting to loosen. Aelin almost begged for her to keep the figure there, keep it where she could see it and fall asleep to it and wake up to it. But she saw how Yrene's forehead was beginning to bead with sweat, power straining with all it took to maintain its grasp on the child's skin. And to _duplicate_ its shape in the empty space before them.

So she swallowed, thought her silent goodbye, and allowed the fireflies to slowly dissolve into the air. Winking out and dimming. The image became spotty.

Little emptinesses appeared as light after light went out. Emptinesses that took hold in her core.

"Soon," Rowan said, as if in farewell. He gave the babe one last little pet before grasping Aelin's fingers in his, glossy-eyed and smiling.

"Soon," she echoed, and motioned for Yrene to relax completely.

The magic within her retracted, spooling back into the healer and taking root there once more. It was an absence that rattled her, made her want to reach out and pull it back to her.

But she shook her head, instead saying, "Terence... Terence wanted to miss _that_?"

"Oh," Yrene sighed, "There's little more important than that girl to him."

"And Lyanna?" Rowan asked.

"Lyanna likes swords and paintbrushes better than salves and bandages. And I'm sure she's quite busy with _her _friend anyway."

Aelin blinked, trying to fight the daze she was still warped in. That sort of frazzling quiet that seeing her unborn child had made her feel, made her become immersed in.

Reeling, calming her overwhelmed mind, she muttered, "Why am I not surprised you know?"

A small, tired smirk. "Of course I know. After begging Chaol and me for visit after visit to Orynth, I figured it wasn't just you she was missing."

"Ah," Rowan said softly, eyes distant. Like hers probably were. "The boy Aelin sends into the city to bring news."

"I believe so. Tell me he's a good one," Yrene whispered.

Aelin shrugged, willing her brain to still, to _steady,_ to focus on the healer and her demand. "I... I really don't know. I hired him on the word of my best guard. Probably the boy's older brother."

Her heart still hammered in her chest.

Steady… _steady_.

"What is his name?"

She shuffled through that mental list of names, doing her best to focus. "Felix. Felix Ardere. He's charming enough. Worthy of Lyanna? Perhaps. Perhaps not. But so long as she's content."

Calm. _Calm_.

Yrene nodded, eyes thoughtful. "Yes... so long as she's content."

Silence fell for a few moments. She had the vaguest sense of Yrene rifling through her satchel, jotting down information onto the notepad and pen she produced. Information on her. Information on the babe currently dreaming within her.

Aelin was still working through her muddled head when the healer at last said, "Well. I will let you rest. Think of some boys' names. Prepare for labor. You know what to do."

She backed away from their bed, shouldered her satchel once more, and strode from the room. Leaving the pair with one word echoing between them.

_Perfect_.

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~ leave a review, if you wanna.

xo


	4. An Unfinished Room

Rowan and his children prepare for the new babe.

disclaimer: sarah j. maas owns all (except for the new generation).

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He awoke to warmth. As he always did, no matter the season, no matter the weather.

Warmth, from the hearth she ignited every night before they climbed into bed. From the heat her body radiated as she slept. And on days like today, from the joy he felt as a sharp twitch thumped against the arm draped over her belly. And he knew he was not the only one awake before dawn.

He scooted closer, breathing in her scent—that _intoxicating_ scent, made all the better as she carried his child—and sending out small waves of his magic. Cooling breezes to sweep against her abdomen. Bidding their unborn son a good morning.

Another little jerk. He smiled.

He would have to get up soon. His duties beckoned: overseeing the city's security, meetings with lower-ranking emissaries and military officials (as Aelin usually handled the more dignified ones), and lessons with the children in the courtyard. Not to mention completing the babe's nursery. Of course, he was practically finished. But it had to be absolutely perfect. As he'd made it for the others.

He had not allowed palace employees to furnish the children's bedrooms. Had not allowed them _near_ the chambers until he'd finished them—until he was completely sure they were flawless. Impeccable. Utterly exemplary.

He did, however, allow his sons and daughter to help him as the years went by.

Ava had been ecstatic to assist in embellishing Rendyll's room, following every order precisely—even at two years old—and keeping Rowan in wonderful company. Rendyll was just as excited to decorate Reavan's chamber, dancing about the space and clumsily singing a _particularly_ repetitive song that Ava'd grown tired of by the second iteration. But Rowan himself had not minded. Not in the least.

And when his three eldest set to work with him in the empty volume that Amora now occupied, when they'd made each other laugh—made _him_ laugh—and chanted happy rhymes together...

He'd crawled into bed that night, made love to his pregnant wife, and nearly wept at the overwhelming gratitude that gripped his heart and his soul. For what he had done to deserve this life, he'd not the slightest idea.

And he could only imagine what melee today would bring. Because now, there would be four of them. Four little creatures—his _own_ little creatures—helping him turn a simple room into a haven, a sanctuary, for their newest brother.

Aelin would not be with them, partially due to her queenly obligations keeping her busy, and partially because he wanted to hold her far from the chemicals in the paint, the sawdust in the air. Anything that might harm her, that might pose a risk to their babe...

Fae pregnancy was already a gamble. He would not cluster the odds against them, would not take any chances.

He would see his newest son born without so much as a defective strand of hair.

The thought had him pressing a soft, slow kiss into Aelin's golden head—the head he hoped their babe would inherit. Had him sending out another tiny gust of wind against her. And had him peeling the silky, silky sheets—for she'd not lost her taste for luxury—off of him, carefully rising so as not to jostle her.

Afterworld forbid she awoke before dawn. He would not allow it. Because he'd not needed her admittance to Yrene those few nights ago to know—she was bone-tired. Thoroughly, thoroughly weary. And she would rest until she awoke _naturally_, gods' ashes be damned.

He padded to the opulent washroom and scrubbed his face quickly, cleaning his teeth and pulling on his usual light armor: hardened leather dyed grey, swept over by a rich green cloak. He left his crown on its cushion atop a small pillar—a beautiful thing, silver in color to contrast the red-gold of Aelin's kingsflame diadem. He would not need it today. Really, he hardly ever needed it.

The queen across the room was ruler enough for the both of them.

Snapping tight the laces of his boots, he strode over to their bed. She still lay on her side, her long form exquisite, closed eyes fluttering.

Damn, if she wasn't gorgeous.

He leaned in close, her scent slithering up his nostrils._ To hoping you have a wonderful day, Fireheart_. He gave her one more kiss, right on those sinful lips. _I love you_.

And he strode from the suite.

The castle was still dark, still quiet, as he prowled through the corridors, his feet padding along without so much as a thought. He would know his way blind.

He passed several servants, men and women tasked with opening hallway curtains and removing films of dust and lint that had settled during the night. They each bowed as he stalked by, muttering, "Majesty," or "My king," or "Your Grace."

All his life, he'd been addressed as "Your Highness." Strange, it still was, to be a king and not merely a prince.

Not that he was a true king, of course. But he didn't tell them that. Only gave them a nod of acknowledgment, and walked on.

For the past eleven years, each morning had brought him to the same chamber, two corners down. As soon as she was old enough to sleep through the entire night without waking them, old enough to be placed in her own room, he always came here right after exiting the royal suite. Everyday, without fail.

And so he knew that she would still be in a deep slumber, still have an arm slung over her eyes. He knew the window would be cracked open, as she always left it before climbing between her sky-blue sheets to let in the moonlight. He knew the hue of her slippers would be lilac. And he knew that tomorrow, they would be white. For she wore a different color each day of the week.

Sunday was navy. Monday was lilac. Tuesday was white. Wednesday was yellow. Thursday was orange. Friday was pink. And Saturday, black.

He smiled softly, reaching the polished door he'd carved himself. The old one had been slightly rickety and completely unsuitable for any child, much less a princess, and much, much less any daughter of his. So he'd made her this one, chiseled with small waves and delicate snowflakes. He gently knocked, though aware she was peacefully dozing.

So he cracked open the door. Stepped through. And watched as her small fingers curled, as her mouth twitched.

Lovely. Ava was lovely, much like the room they'd adorned together—this time, with the help of her mother—after she grew into herself and discovered what she liked, what she enjoyed.

Primarily, water. She _lived_ for it, swam whenever she had the chance, treasured those magic lessons with the fountain out in the courtyard. She had her own personal fountain, right in the corner of her pretty room, the gurgling soothing enough to lull anyone to sleep. And her walls were turquoise, like the purified Florine that snaked through Terrasen. Which she had an excellent view of from her personal balcony.

She also liked, which had been no surprise, combat. The little blade he and Aelin had gifted her hung from a shiny nail in the wall, just next to her bedpost. Her customized bow leaned against her nightstand, quiver of arrows nearby. And her wooden sword—for they hadn't yet deemed her old enough to possess a real one—sat flat on her desk, atop scrolls lined in dark ink with stories of battle and conflict.

He passed them all, perching on the edge of her bed. Her hair—that hair identical to his mate's—was splayed across the pillow, golden strands shining even in the morning's darkness. Absentmindedly, he reached out and petted it, the clean smell of her room—lavender and steam—wafting along his nose.

"Ava," he murmured. "Wake up."

She didn't stir, deep in her slumber.

"Ava," he said again, a bit louder.

And she breathed in deep, her chest rising with the gulp of breath. "Mm. Hm?"

A flash of green eyes—_his_ eyes—as she lifted her arm and blinked blearily at him, lashes batting.

"Good morning," he whispered.

"Mm. Good..." A gaping yawn, showing sharp little canines. "Good morning, Father."

"You remember we've got lessons in the armory today, yes?"

"Yes. Can..." She paused, wiping her eyes with a small fist. "Can Castoran join us?"

He chuckled, flicking her nose. He knew that if he asked, she would deny it. Deny that she cared for the Crown Prince of Adarlan in any manner other than that of a friend. But... there had also been a point where he'd denied Aelin—refused to acknowledge his feelings, sidled away from her touch—that sweet, sweet touch—back on that rooftop in Rifthold years ago. In the future, he suspected, his daughter would not be so adamant.

"Yes. And we'll see if his training is up to par." He gave her a wink.

"He trains with the Witch Queen," she near-groaned. "Mother said she's lethal."

"So? You train with me. _And _your mother. Who, I'm sure she's mentioned, has bested the Witch Queen before."

Her face remained unimpressed, but she could not hide the spark of wonder in her eyes. Still, she said, "Castoran is older."

"You're faster." He poked her side. She squealed, wriggling out of reach. "And your magic is powerful."

A little smirk made its way onto her lips—gods, she was _just_ like her mother. And as she waved a manicured hand, a ribbon of shimmering droplets spouted from the babbling fountain and encircled his head, resting on his hair. "That is true," she drawled. "Although, he has magic, too."

"That he does. But not quite enough to stop _you_."

He jabbed her again again, and the crown of liquid beads fell away with her laugh. They fell down his shoulders, his cloak, sliding down to the floor where they gathered into a small puddle. A thought from him had the thing frozen, turning a sheer white and melding into the shape of a small, striped kitten.

"Sleep a bit more, cub," he told her, setting the iced figure on her nightstand. "But begin your tutoring early. No sparring until you've finished, alright?"

She frowned, but sighed in agreement. "Yes, Father."

And that was that.

He kissed her cheek and paced out of her room, the lock giving a soft _click_ behind him.

Rendyll's chamber was not a second's walk from here, as all their children had been placed in the same corridor. His volume sat across the hall, opposite to Ava's and just as ornate, _his _door carved with small flames and mirages. Again, he knocked, and again, no reply.

So he padded in, making a beeline for his son's bed, the frame gilded with plates of gold and painted with soft white. As was a lot of his room. The pristine walls were adorned with concert announcements, sheet music to particularly beautiful pieces, and certifications for the years of musical education he'd already completed. Flames of Rendyll's own making crackled from a gleaming brazier, a cooling breeze rippling through, keeping the temperature from climbing.

Rowan made a beeline for the bed, and took up a spot beside the sleeping prince, ruffling his hair.

"Ren."

A flutter of dark eyelashes.

"Ren."

And the boy inhaled soundly, stretching out his limbs and loosing a soft, low hum. "Mm. Morning, Father."

"Slept late last night, didn't you? I could hear that pianoforte"—the one in the center of the room—"in my dreams."

A guilty, sleepy grin curled Rendyll's mouth. "The masters of Delles are dining with us tonight. Can't disappoint, can we?"

Delles, the marvelous theater and music school Rowan had ordered built for Aelin, its teachers, its performers, proclaimed the best in Erilea. Proclaimed as such by themselves, of course. But even so, their skill was undeniable.

"Never," Rowan beamed, bowing his head to press a peck to Rendyll's silver hair. "But before that, you've sessions with the scholars."

He wasn't nearly as reluctant about it as Ava. Rendyll nodded, tucking himself deeper into his cocoon of plush blankets. "And..." A brief pause, as if he was fighting a yawn. "Will we help you with the new babe's bedroom today?"

"You, me, Reavan, Ava, and Amora." He flashed his son a grin.

"And Mother?"

"Mother's busy. You know that. And I don't want to overtire her. The babe makes her weary."

"Ah. Alright." His mouth popped open in a gaping yawn, unable to suppress it this time. "Can I sleep now?"

Rowan laughed, ruffling Ren's hair once more. "Sleep away. Only until seven, though."

A bleary smile. "Only until seven," the eaglet promised.

Reavan, as usual, was already awake as Rowan sauntered into his chambers. His were a little messier than the rest; there were sheets drawn up on the walls, so Reavan was free to splatter them with paint and muck as so he was inclined. Small tables dotted the place, holding little ceramic constructions painted with pudgy but careful fingers, blobs of clay, and colored little cylinders made of wax.

The young prince sat with his legs folded beneath him, the chest of toys in front of his bed wide open to reveal wooden figurines, chess pieces, scraps of fabric, and lengths of rope. Before him was his wobbly rendition of the palace, constructed of twigs and smooth, pale mud from the banks of the Florine. Seeing the construction always made him blink in disbelief. At Reav's young age, he was shockingly talented at crafting things. Perhaps that was why he enjoyed Lyanna Westfall's company. Rowan knew of the young lady's love for sculpting and turning overlooked items into works of art.

"Hello, Papa," Reavan chirped, setting a pair of guards on the uneven surface of the battlements.

"Good morning, Reav. How long have you been up?"

His son shrugged, small head cocking to the side. "I don't know. I think ten minutes."

So about forty-five, Rowan thought. He crouched low next to his youngest boy—well, youngest boy for now, anyway—and helped him set more tiny guards atop the walls. "Ava and I are having lessons in the courtyard today. Would you like to be there with us?"

"Can Lyanna come?"

He chuckled. "She may, should she wish to. Then we can see how well her father has been teaching her."

"And you will teach me, too?" He pointed a small finger at his chest.

Rowan beamed. The sight of Reavan always made his heart swell in his chest. Because this prince, this child was undoubtedly and positively _his_. They _all_ were, and he could see himself in Ava's eyes, or Rendyll's hair.

But _Reavan_—Reavan was his own little clone, as the people of court always said. The way his brow crinkled, the sharp nose, the hard mouth. All that was missing was the tattoo, snaking down his face and neck and arm.

"Yes," he said. "I will teach you. Just make sure _they_ don't make you run late." He jerked his chin towards the guard figurines, standing vigilant over the boy's smooth, dark green carpet.

Reavan scoffed. "They're too small to make me late."

"That they are. Have a good day, Reav. Don't forget to be as helpful as you can around Mama, alright? She's very tired. She could use your help."

"Yes, Papa. Will the babe arrive today?"

Rowan pondered, "He may. He may not. In any case, would you like to help me finish his room after lessons?"

Reavan nodded vigorously. "With the others?"

"Yes. Think it'll be fun?"

The young prince grinned, his canines gleaming. "Yes. Very fun. More than last time."

"Good. We'll polish off the room, sing all your favorite songs, and then we'll have sweets after. Maybe even watch the sunset from there." He seriously could not have spoiled his children more. The thought made his smile almost crack his face in two. "See you in the afternoon."

"Goodbye, Papa."

He winked at his son, raised himself from his crouch, and slunk out.

Soon, there would be two more doors to knock on. One more for the boys' side. But for now, he passed the near-finished chamber, the one they would settle the new babe in once he was old enough, and instead approached the final one for today.

She would undoubtedly be knocked out cold. He prodded open the door, light from the hall leaking in as he squeezed between the gap, quiet as a shadow.

Like Ava's, Amora's volume was filled with touches of blue, albeit more sparingly. Indigo blossoms hung in vines from the archway that led to her balcony, and a beautiful mosaic was the focus of the space, fashioned in the likeness of a midnight rose in full bloom. It commanded much of the floor, its azure petals flowing out from the core like tongues of scorching flame. Silver braziers stood blazing in each corner, and his youngest daughter did not mind the heat. Not in the least.

She curled against her pillow, hugging it close like a lifeline, tiny fingers clenched in the soft mass. Her silver hair was tucked under her, testament to her stillness in sleep.

With a breath through his nose, he ambled over, sitting on her tiny bed by her feet. "Amora."

She did not need to hear her name twice. Her silvery lashes danced open, revealing those odd sapphire irises. "Good morning," he whispered.

A furrow of eyebrows. She did not take kindly to being awoken. "Good morning," she grumbled back, eyes fluttering shut again, as if to say, _and goodnight_. He bit back a chuckle.

"Aren't you going to ask what I have planned for us today?"

One vivid eye cracked open. "Planned?"

"Well, now I don't quite feel like telling you." He looked away in emphasis, to the flower blazing on the floor. The bed dipped—slightly, under her airy weight—and he felt a small, warm hand tap his shoulder.

"Papa? Tell me?"

He looked her over with a mock-solemn expression. "Are you sure you want to hear it?"

"Yes. Please?"

"You may not like it." That part was partially true, in regards to the babe. Aelin predicted Amora would react rather poorly to getting attention snatched away from her when he arrived.

"What? What is it?"

A moment of feigned consideration. "Well... you've seen Mama's belly. You know you're having a little brother."

"Yes," she said, impatient. Her foot, vibrating in her peeved mood, shook the bed. "And?"

"And your siblings are helping me finish up his room. Would you like to to join us?"

Rowan wasn't entirely sure whether or not Amora understood what having a new sibling entailed. She blinked in the early light, grey eyebrows mashing together. "Will it be hard?"

"Not hard. I'll be there with you."

She considered for a second, groggy mind weighing her options. Which weren't many. Amora spent her days being singing lullabies and learning her letters, and she always finished early. Usually by the evening, after her nap, she was left with some toy she'd already played with or faces she'd already grown tired of. But it was either that or watch, bored, as Rowan had lessons with her brothers and sister in the courtyard. He supposed he could begin to include her in the lessons. It was never too early to begin the basics of magic.

"Yes, I want to help," she decided.

He grinned at her, brushing her sweet face with the tips of his fingers. "Excellent."

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"Mama! Hurry!"

Aelin tried not to huff too loudly as Reavan tugged her along by a finger. The same one that held the gleaming emerald she'd stolen from the barrow-wight trove all those years ago. Lifetimes ago. When the thought of her children, the mere _possibility_ of having them, was so, so far away.

"It's pretty, Mama. You're going to love it!"

She'd not seen yet. In the weeks Rowan had worked on it, not once had she so much as caught a glimpse of the chamber for their new babe. But her mate always made them beyond perfect, always poured his heart into designing each one. She harbored no doubt it would steal the breath from her lungs upon walking through the threshold.

Frankly, her breath was already gone. Lugging around an eight-pound child made the wind in her chest come in short pants as Reavan near-sprinted to the royal children's hall in his excitement. He held fast to her hand, insisting on clutching it hard enough to make it turn pink.

"Where is your father? Is he inside?" she puffed.

"Yes, Mama. He's waiting for you. He's very happy."

She hummed a laugh, bracing a palm on her abdomen. _Two more days_. _Two more days_. _Two more days_.

Reavan had thieved her from an evening council meeting, the guards standing vigilant at the door not daring to impede him, lest he envelop them in those near-monstrous little flurries he could make. She wondered what that said about her parenting. Or perhaps she could just get better guards. She settled for the latter.

Reavan led her down the winding corridors of Orynth's palace, old enough to know his way around. Even if he'd spent his entire life living here, it was an impressive feat, not getting lost. He was only five, after all.

"How did you decorate the room?"

He shook his head fervently. "No, Papa said not to tell you."

"Come on, Papa won't be angry if you happened to let something slip."

"I don't want to say it."

"Please?"

"No, you have to see!" He loosed an exasperated sigh, pulling faster. They approached the children's hall, lined with gold wallpaper and sizzling braziers. He marched her right up to the third door on the right side, next to his own bedroom. "Alright," he piped. "Alright, go inside, Mama."

She gently plucked her hand away, lightly smacking him over the head. "This had better be worth it."

Of course, she knew it would be.

The wood of the door was smooth and warm as she pushed against it, candlelight flickering beyond. Her belly required more space for her to squeeze through than she would have liked, but she managed and—

She gasped, blinking.

Rowan sat in a rocking chair beside the beautiful, intricate crib, a drowsy Amora resting on his lap. Ava stood at his back, watching over them both as Rendyll sat sprawled on the floor, long legs extended before him.

The floor.

It was a tree. An artful depiction of a tree using tiny round stones. No—not stones. Crystals. They gleamed in the waning sunlight spilling in from the open balcony doors. A perfect view of the sunset.

Instead of branches, antler horns curled into the white background, sprouting leaves from their pale centers and little blossoms of plump fruit. Six blossoms in total, with three on the right side, three on the left. Some of them were green, one of them blue, and two turquoise, a ring of gold wrapping around the stem. And—

There, on the right, an empty space. A small crater, waiting to be filled. For _him_. For the new child.

"Took me the longest time." Rowan beamed at her. "Worth it, though."

"It's wonderful," she whispered.

That was the basis, she realized. For their unborn son had not yet shown his character, not yet decided his tastes. So Rowan decorated the room with the one thing he knew the babe would love.

His family.

Reavan's messy but still rather impressive rendition of them all, new brother included, hung proud and stark against the cream-colored wall above the crib. Rendyll had written a happy little jingle to his baby brother, in the blackest ink on a wide piece of parchment, framed in a gilded square and leaned against a birch bookcase. Ava made the room sparkle with her ice, little drops permanently frozen hanging from the ceiling, to catch the light from outside like glittering stars. Amora... she'd stuck her pudgy hands in sky-blue paint and pressed her fingers to the walls in a lovely pattern, undoubtedly with Rowan's help.

And as for them, for Rowan and Aelin...

"I had it made a few days after your coronation. I admit, I'd forgotten about it. But when that space looked empty, when we needed something to place there..."

It was her. Possibly the most beautiful she'd ever looked, her eyes almost glowing, her hair shining. And it was him. Rowan, a simple band of frost wreathing his head, the ruby on his finger glinting as his hand rested on the small of her back. They faced one another, each smiling as if the other held worlds and constellations in their eyes. And there...

Her scars. In the rich gown that fell off her shoulders, her scars were exposed. The necklace earned from Baba Yellowlegs, the twin marks at her neck. And as her hand idled at his heart, there the faint lines marred her, too. As they should have now. In perfect detail, from his perfect memory.

It was a painting. A good size, like a large dinner platter, set on the babe's dresser in a sturdy wooden frame stained a honeyed brown and polished to magnificence. And despite being positioned opposite cotton undershorts and rash-preventing powders, it stood proudly, right beside the large mirror their son would not outgrow. So that he might look at himself, see the parents he was born from, and know he was loved beyond measure, cherished beyond measure.

"You didn't remember you had it with our rooms?" Ava asked. No accusation in her tone. Just curiosity.

"For some reason, your rooms were easier to furnish. And I'd not known what were were expecting then. But some part of me just knew what to do, knew what to place and where to place it. What color to make the walls. How far to set the cribs from the window. Simply, how to fill the chamber with life. But here, it kept feeling like something was missing. No matter how perfect it looked. So the idea struck me. And now, it is finished."

"It's..." Aelin swallowed. Reavan's hands encircled hers.

"Pretty?" he offered.

She laughed, stroking his fine silver hair. "Yes, my love. Very pretty." She looked at her mate, at the male who filled her very soul with such unending pride and bliss. "The prettiest thing I've ever seen."

They did not sleep for much of the night.

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~ in case you were confused:

Ava - gifts of water and ice

Rendyll - gifts of flame and wind

Reavan - gifts of ice and wind

Amora - gifts of blue-white flame

~ let me know what you think!

xo


	5. A Question

Lyanna itches for a fight. | Castoran asks Ava a question.

disclaimer: sarah j. maas owns all (minus the new generation).

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With a snarl, she hurled the sword at the shoddy target, now ripped to shreds from her ministrations. It sang through the air, steel blade catching the sunlight in a blinding sheen as it whizzed over stone after stone of courtyard floor. A thud sounded not seconds later, and the tip was embedded just enough to hold the sword in place, the handle bobbing.

Stupid, _stupid_—

Lyanna huffed and stomped to the target, the sword sprouting from the hastily-painted bullseye. She wrenched it out with no difficulty, muscles burning in her rage. No more tears. She'd since shed every last one, and in their place, a sizzling anger that overtook her every breath, every step.

Gods' ashes, she was in idiot. She was a damned idiot.

_Again,_ her mind screamed as she stalked back to her position meters away from the target, raising her arms above her head in preparation.

_Last sword throw. Then I'll make someone suffer._

She grunted and lobbed the sword again, completely unsurprised as it struck home, slicing through the center—and only the center. A perfect shot. Like always.

It infuriated her to no end.

She wished she'd never come. She should have stayed in Adarlan with her uncle, with the girls of the court and her friends from the city. She would have been clueless, blissfully ignorant…

And yet she'd have stayed a fool.

_Black hair and purple marks and roses and_—

A growl sang through her throat, and she stormed toward the courtyard entrance to the palace. But she didn't want to go inside, not yet. Not until she was completely spent and there was no chance of her shattering anything.

Though shattering his bones right now sounded rather nice.

Shaking her head, she marched up to one of the guards, lanky and handsome, standing vigil beside the entrance. He was imposing enough, towering over her by a good half foot. His copper hair shone in the midday sun, brown eyes staring forward.

"You," she hissed, "I challenge you to a spar."

"We're not permitted to leave our posts, my lady," he muttered, not even sparing her a glance.

Good. She'd had enough male attention.

"Do you know of my relationship with the queen? I'm sure she won't mind if you help her niece train." She tucked away her scowl, smiling sweetly up at him.

"I could fetch someone to train with you—"

"I don't want to wait. I want to do it now."

Her hand twitched toward the dagger at her waist, eager to hurl it at something. Or someone, it didn't matter to her. The guard caught the movement, as did his companion, and they exchanged a fleeting look, hands tensing on the pommels of their swords.

They were nervous, she realized.

Lyanna barked a laugh. "What are your names?"

The red-headed one said, "Rothan, my lady."

"Tylas," the other echoed, his brown hair brushing against his eyes.

A flash of her teeth and a wild, wicked grin. "Rothan and Tylas. Why don't you both spar with me? I promise not to hurt you."

"My lady, we are not permitted to leave our posts. As I offered earlier, I can send for someone else."

And with that, her smile disappeared. Didn't they understand? She just needed to hit someone, to tire herself out. With a roll of her eyes, she asked, "Who shall you send for, should I accept your offer?"

"The weapon's master, perhaps."

She snorted. "Vince? I'm not fighting an old man. Come on, it'll take but five minutes."

"We cannot, my lady."

Something to entice them, then. Something they would be reluctant to pass up. And so she blurted, "I'll give you a kiss." She didn't have to think about it too much to decide it was a lie. She wouldn't kiss anyone for a while. Not if the idea made her want to slap herself.

But there—she could see the consideration in their eyes. The hesitation and the deliberation, doubt and curiosity mingling in their gazes. She knew that she was lovely; the ladies of her uncle's court had told her as much all her life. Not to mention a kiss from a noble girl was on many, many guards' wish lists, she'd long since learned. So she deliberately batted her lashes and pushed a breathy sigh from her mouth, cocking her head to the side.

"Kiss… who?" Rothan muttered.

A smirk played across her lips. "Whoever can best me."

_Come on, just say yes. Come on_.

"I… " His lips pursed, and she didn't miss the way he sized her up, calculated her agility and strength, her intelligence and her experience. She had much; her father had trained her from the day she began to run. "One... one match," he at last conceded, holding out his wrist. She tried and failed to hide her triumphant smile, linking her arm in his.

"Rothan," Tylas warned.

But the pair ignored him, striding to the open yard littered with dummies and the straw that filled them. Targets, aside from her mostly-destroyed one, glared at them in crimson rings, beckoning.

With every step forward, the roar in her blood became deafening. She needed an outlet. She needed a way to expel the molten tempest boiling in her veins.

She extracted her arm from his as they reached the center of the ring where matches took place. "Did Fenrys train you?"

"Yes, my lady."

Ah. That was the standard. Fenrys did not officially bear the title of Captain of the Guard, instead holding that of Royal Emissary, though he fulfilled several of a captain's duties. And she'd seen him fight—in both forms, animal and male, he was lethal. She'd never trained with him herself, but she'd heard enough stories of the White Wolf of Doranelle.

He was a former member of the fabled Valg queen's cadre. A companion to the king consort and Lorcan Lochan. A Fae male who could slip between the folds in the world, who could travel from one end of a hall to the other in the blink of an eye.

If he trained Aelin's guards, they wouldn't be easy to beat.

So she let her body fall into a defensive stance. Let Rothan do the same as they stared at each other, assessing and studying, surveying and measuring.

Already, she could tell he was skilled; he knew how to use his height and size as the intimidating factor, knew how to glare at his opponent in a way that made them believe he knew their thoughts, their moves.

But Lyanna was raised by an _actual_ Captain of the Guard. Or so he'd been, at least. A man who fought at the Battle of Anielle and the Second Battle of Theralis despite the inadequacy of his legs, despite his dependence on her mother's magic. A man brave beyond measure.

Chaol Westfall was her father. And she'd since vowed to herself she'd make him proud.

"Good," was all she said before she slipped the dagger from her hip and lunged.

He immediately dodged, as she suspected he would, trying to get a sense of her strategies, of her style. So she whirled, letting him try to strike next, prowling around him in a predatory arc.

"You're quick," Rothan mumbled, unsheathing his sword. Some might have said it was an unfair fight. A knife against a razor-sharp rapier. But she cracked her neck and waved a hand. "Don't talk."

And the ghost of a beam swept against his lips, his head nodding as if to say, _Yes, my lady._

He stepped forward, a cautious, risky step that she could have kicked aside with ease. Could have sent him sprawling on the ground. But she had a feeling he was baiting her. Inviting her to try.

She remained where she was. Just as he raised his sword—

"What is this?"

Rothan stopped cold.

The harsh voice called from the castle entrance, right beside Tylas. The brown-haired guard was pale as the sparse clouds inching across the sky above them, his mouth set into a frown. She turned to the owner of the voice, to another guard, commanding and authoritative, tall and well-built as any Fae male.

No—he _was _Fae. She could just make out the tips of his pointed ears, peeking from his cap of russet hair, could see his sharp canines as he spoke. "What is this?" he repeated.

Rothan grimaced, head bowing as his faced flushed, and he swept back to his position beside the door, leaving Lyanna alone in the ring.

"Sorry," he muttered. To Lyanna or the male, she wasn't sure.

The male scowled, saying, "What does the queen pay you for? Getting distracted with pretty girls?" Then he fixed his attention on her, presumably scanning her for any sign of her identity, any tell for who she was. There was none; she'd worn plain leathers, unadorned with any sigil, and her hair was tied back into a simple braid, unlike the way women of the court usually wore it.

He looked testy enough. Perhaps she could coax a fight out of _him_.

She put her back to him, flipping her knife between her hands. Giving him no attention when he clearly demanded it.

It worked.

She heard the near-silent footfalls as they crossed the courtyard and approached the ring, hopping down the stone steps with graceful ease. The male slunk right up to her, clearing his throat. "And who might you be to remove a guard from his position?"

No accusation in his tone, in case she was of high birth. He likely worked in some other portion of the castle if he hadn't seen her around the halls. And he was shrewd to keep his voice even, lest he offend anyone of noble blood.

It merely served to irk her.

"Who are you to command them?" she snapped, facing him. His uniform marked him as another ordinary guard—no special badges or medals, no ribbon of silver fabric wrapping around his bicep. His meadow-green eyes bored into hers, mouth set into a hard line.

"Forgive me, my lady, but I don't see how that's any business of yours."

Skirting the line between respect and discourtesy. It made her fingers tense around her knife. "No, I suppose it's not. But let me guess: it's your business to know what we were doing?"

"It is, because you removed a person under my supervision from his place."

"You act as if I made him leave it. I just asked to spar with him."

"And you expect me to believe he just abandoned his post for a mere spar?"

"Are you suggesting something else?" She didn't bother hiding the imputation in her tone. He was right, of course. But he didn't need to know that.

He fell quiet. Their silence settled in the afternoon air like a woolly blanket, eyes never leaving each other. There was something completely irritating about him—the familiar way his slender nose complemented his lips, or how his dark lashes framed his irises.

She glowered. "Why don't you take his place?" She found herself itching to land a blow on that hard expression.

A growl rumbled in his throat. "I don't have time for this. Who are you?"

"Not someone you want to turn away. Train with me and I'll tell you."

He scoffed. "For all I know, you're nobody at all."

"And for all you know, I'm a special friend of the queen's."

"The queen is too busy for the likes of young girls."

"Present me to her and let's see."

"You're bluffing."

"Am I?"

She was right in his face now. Almost snarling into it. Flushing an angry pink, she backed away, a hiss cutting through her lips. "I just want to let off some steam."

"Not my problem."

"What an honorable sentry," Lyanna mocked. "Fine, then. Leave." She jabbed a finger in the direction of the palace entrance, where Rothan and Tylas stared at them, eyes wide. "Go, get out."

She was not a lady from Terrasen. She didn't possess any authority here, not like she did back home. And the male stood his ground, taking a step closer.

"What makes you think I take orders from you." Not a question.

Gods, if she wouldn't have the chance to hit him, she wanted him gone from her sight. "You said you had no time for me. So leave."

And she could see him debating it. Questioning whether or not it would be worth it to give her mouth a good smack, send her sprawling to the ground. She wanted him to try. She'd never fought a Fae male. She wondered how long she'd last against him.

Probably not long. He cut an impressive figure, hovering above her like a large statue, hard muscle evident through his deep green uniform. But she didn't care that he'd probably beat her. She just needed to take a swing at _something_.

Her scowl deepened as he muttered, "What are you? Some servant girl with dreams of becoming a guard? Some kitchen maid with a brute for a father?"

"You don't answer to me, little bastard, and I do not answer to you."

He looked like he might roar in her face at _little_. He was by no means small, but it brought her a sense of satisfaction to see his eyes spark with rage and his hands twitch, craving to ball into fists.

Yet he still deigned to speak. "Tell me your name and I'll tell you mine."

"Then you will go first," she bit back.

A slow blink. Another.

Finally, he ground out, "Eren. Eren Ardere."

Her head spun.

Ardere. _Ardere_.

Flashes of that night seized her mind, and she reined in her snarl, willing them to vanish. _Get out of my head_.

The several long, midnight hairs on his jacket. The faint purple mark on his neck, cleverly hidden by his high collar. The scent of him—flowery and strange, unlike his usual fresh-linen smell.

His wide eyes, filled with disbelief when she'd noticed all three. His sputtering explanations. His shoes shuffling out of her chambers after she'd told to leave.

_Out, out, out of my head_.

Enough. Enough of this boy's hold on her, enough of his games. She was no one's fool, no one's little lapdog. And so Lyanna snapped her hands back to her sides, looking Eren right in his brown-speckled gaze. "My name is Lyanna Westfall. And I'm leaving."

Oh, she was going to break something. She didn't care _how_ they shared a name, just that they did. Which meant they were somehow related—probably friends.

"Lyanna—Westfall?" he echoed, vague recognition clouding his features. No doubt from listening to Felix blabber on about how he'd had her wrapped around a finger. How he'd tricked her so thoroughly, he turned her into someone she never wished to be again.

A fool. A stupid, stupid fool.

"Say my name again and I'll cut you from ear to ear. Have a splendid day." She hurled a dagger at his feet for emphasis, purposefully slicing the front of his boot, the soft leather splitting in small gash. He didn't even jerk back, didn't flinch, narrowing his eyes at her as she shouldered past him.

The painting she made that evening was full of reds and blacks.

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He laughed, the sound bubbling along the queen's garden.

"Alright, alright. My turn," she said, smacking his arm from where she lay beside him. "Most frightening dream you've ever had."

Castoran pursed his lips, considering. Ava waited in silence, Quickflit's head a comforting weight on her stomach. She stroked the hound behind his ears, drawing whirls and curving lines as she stared up at the sky, the grass beneath her plush and soft. A perfect day. She might have fallen asleep then, if chatting with the prince hadn't commanded her attention.

The afternoon air sat heavily on them, the chilled spring breezes keeping them cool and dry. She was tired enough after training with Castoran; they'd thoroughly worn each other out, sparring until they were panting and their hands were braced on their knees. Though the new movements her father taught her had proved useful—Castoran wasn't beating her so often anymore. She was improving.

"Most frightening dream I've ever had…" he mused. "There was this one, when I was twelve."

"Yes, continue," she muttered, waving a manicured hand.

"Well… I trust your parents have told you about the wights in Wendlyn?"

Her blood ran cold, a shudder slithering down her spine. "Yes," she said. "And the skinwalkers."

Castoran nodded, fluttering his fingers through the air, making figures of gray frost with his magic. They took forms of slouching humanoids, staggering across the air in unsteady strides. But there—he made one taller than the rest. A female with long, silk-straight hair, pointed ears, and slender hands. She was more graceful than the others, even if she was missing a foot, broken bones in its place. Flesh peeled off her in scraps, baring the teeth in her cheek, exposing the femur in her thigh, crumbling into the empty air as if burned away. And—

Ava bit back her gasp.

Her _head_. It shifted as she continued walking, looking as if it would slide off her neck at any moment. It was _detached_.

"Father remembers her perfectly," Castoran whispered. "Says her hair was darker than the blackness between the stars. Her lips, the color of blood. Her eyes like inky, bottomless pits. Devoid of sentiment. Thirsty for violence. Ravenous for power."

She knew of whom he spoke.

"Maeve," she breathed.

"Maeve, Queen of the Valg. I'd had extensive history lessons that day, my tutor describing the Second Battle of Theralis in detail. He said the queen fought your mother just outside the city. And that she held Aelin through her mind, wormed her way into her head. Even then, she was strong enough to grip three ancient males, your father included, by the brains, forcing them to see their fears, their nightmares. Until Fenrys Moonbeam stabbed her in the back and your mother cut off her head."

Ava had long since decided she'd never take her mother for granted. Ever.

"In my dream, Maeve rose from the ashes she'd been burned into. Reformed. Returned. As a dead thing, as a rotting corpse, ready to devour the world she'd so coveted. And she began her hunt for retribution with my kingdom. With Adarlan."

Castoran waved a wrist, and the female before them pulled a sword from thin air, murderous fury written across her face. The other wights did the same, marching forth with her, silent snarls dripping from their mouths.

"And then?" Ava asked.

"And then she was at the palace's doorstep, hissing, 'My dearest betrothed. You promised me things. Are you like your coward of a father? Will you go back on your word?'"

"Betrothed?"

"Father had made her believe they were to marry once, as a part of some ingenious plan of his. And he'd betrayed her, saying there was only one witch who would be his queen."

Ava did not miss the gleam of pride in Castoran's eyes. "Your mother."

A dip of his chin. "My mother. And so Maeve ripped through every guard that stood in her way. Blasted them all to smithereens with her conniving magic and hounded the halls of Rifthold's castle for the king, leaving behind bits of her dead body as she went."

"And what did you do?"

He frowned, balling his hand into a fist. "I couldn't _do _anything. I could only watch as she stormed through my home and destroyed all that she encountered. And that was the truly terrifying thing. That I could do nothing. Could say nothing, help no one, while she fought her way into my father's tower and found him rallying his magic to kill her. And... and when she saw him, saw the tapestry he keeps in there, the one in which my mother holds me as a babe, she laughed. Like a madwoman."

"Laughed?"

"Yes. Said she would come after every last person Aelin held dear. Including my family, including the Westfalls. And she said when she was finished, she'd go to Orynth. Enslave your father again and the rest of his cadre. And her plans for Aelin..." His cheeks flushed an angry purple, strange blood peeking through his skin. "She didn't say. I suspect they were too monstrous to even mention."

Ava could only swallow in horror at the thought. Gods' ashes, she was going to have nightmares of her own tonight. "And… and then?"

Castoran opened his hand, the figures melting away into dew that settled on the grass around them. "Then I told the Crown Princess of Terrasen that I made it up." A smirk played across his lips.

She sat bolt upright, Quickflit whining in protest. Ava's mouth opened with an indignant _pop_, fist already flying to pummel his arm.

"Wha—ow!"

"You complete ass!"

But he was laughing. Was clutching his stomach as he howled, blinding white teeth bared before the heavens. "Don't—" he choked, shaking his head. "Don't let your father hear you say that."

"_Och_. I hate you more than black pudding. You are hereby banished from the queen's garden. And banished from Terrasen."

"You're not queen yet." Castoran grinned. "You can't kick me out."

"Oh, just you wait, you blithering moron. I'm going to gut you the next time we spar."

"You can certainly _try_, Princess. See how well it goes for you." An arrogant glint shone in his sapphire eyes. Oh, she was going to knock him down. And laugh while she did it.

"Go on and swear to exact your revenge," he said. "It's my turn now."

"Like hell it is," Ava hissed, dragging her tongue along her canines. "You didn't give a truth. That's the whole point of the game. It's called Truth for a Truth, stupid oaf."

"How your words cut me," he mocked, shoving her. "I'm giving you the liberty of deciding whether or not to be completely honest with me. Just so we're even."

That was utterly... not... a totally idiotic idea.

She sniffed, turning her nose up at him. "Very well. The Crown accepts."

He rolled his eyes, flicking her nose. "You don't represent the Crown, Princess, your mother does. Now… what shall I ask you?"

But he'd gotten her skin buzzing, her blood roiling. She didn't want to lie still on the soft grass anymore. She wanted to get up, move around. Wanted to look upon Orynth and remind herself what he'd just told her would never happen. So she muttered, "Make it good," before rising to her feet and leaving him to his pondering.

Her heart was still clamoring in her chest as she strode over to the fountain that spilled over the lip of the garden. She was unsure how the thing worked, but it made for a beautiful sight, the sunlight hitting the cascading water below so its vapor refracted the light in an array of colors. There was a hidden alcove beside it, home to an outdoor couch protected from prying eyes by a jasmine bush, but still offering a gorgeous view of the falls. It was her favorite place in the world. She'd lost count how many times she'd tucked herself away there, just to sit and stare. To feel the mist on her face, to toy with the water using her magic, making little animals or her family or dancers from Delles. It was beautiful.

The entire garden was so, so beautiful. White roses grew all around the space, dotting hedges and bushes, blooming before the sun in pure, wholesome beauty. She ran a few fingers through lavender tendrils of wisteria hanging in speckled curtains, swaying and sighing in the currents of air. And the the fruit trees… those were another one of her favorite parts. Apple and peach and pomegranate, the lush blossoms colorful and inviting. She'd loved them before, and she loved them now, as they reminded her of the antler tree in the new babe's bedroom, bearing fruit that represented each member of their family, each piece to their wonderful home...

Ava swore to herself then—this palace, this glittering city, all the people that lived within it… she would never fail to appreciate them. She would tell her children and her children's children of what happened here on that day twenty-nine years ago, when a king from Adarlan ordered his men to storm through the gates and grip Orynth by the throat. When a young girl was forced from her home and tossed into a frigid Florine, when she died and was revived, when she was taken in by an assassin and made to forget all that she'd loved, all that she'd lost.

And she would tell them how that girl gave up everything for Terrasen. Just as her father had told her. He'd told her everything.

_Once upon a time, there lived a young princess who loved her kingdom very much. _

His words echoed in her skull. _She adored it dearly with every bit of her heart. But it was taken from her by creatures of another world. They tried to take her as well, and they would have, if not for the sacrifice of a noble lady by the name of Marion. And the cruel gods kept the princess alive, if only for their own evil agenda. To them, she was nothing but a pawn in their unfinished game, a tool to find their way back to their realm. And so they let her be stolen from her home, let her become someone else, let her endure terrible things. Her heart of wildfire was hurt—so much that she gave up on herself, gave up on her kingdom. And she lived that way for ten years._

_But one day, she was sent to a distant land, and there she found a prince of ice and wind. A prince broken and wounded, like she was. And while they quarreled in the beginning, they found a way to guide each other back to the light. She saved him, set him free, healed him. To this day, he is grateful._

_So the princess became the light she was always meant to be. Faced her past and remembered herself, remembered who she was and what she stood for. Remembered her kingdom and how she loved it so. And through tears and pain, through hardship more harrowing than should have been possible, she fought. She never gave up again. With every breath, every beat of her burning heart, she fought. She is the bravest, most selfless person in all the realms. She inspired people to follow her. Won over some of the darkest souls. And together with the family she'd made, together with her friends... she saved the world._

Her siblings, except perhaps Rendyll, were still oblivious. But _she_ knew; this life had been hard-won, through blood and sacrifice and terror. And when she reigned, she would see to it every living soul in this world of promise knew of every single thing her family and her friends went through to earn it.

And her mother… her mother survived _dying_, she'd endured slavery, countless beatings, two months of torture from the most sadistic male in existence... She'd long suspected there wasn't a force in all the universe that could defeat Aelin Galathynius. If a master of assassins could not do it, if a demon-possessed king could not, if a Valg king and queen could not, if the gods—the _gods_—could not...

Ava blinked back her tears.

"Alright. Can I just say I'm sorry for frightening you? That was mean. But I've got it."

His voice snapped her from her thoughts. She turned, and Castoran stood behind her with his hands clasped behind him, an amused look lining his annoyingly perfect features.

She shook her head. "What?"

"I'm sorry for what I said. Really. And I've got it," he repeated.

"It's... alright. I'll make you pay for it later." She forced a smirk. "And got what?"

"Your question. Are you ready?"

"I suppose. What is it?"

He looked at ease, but something was off. His gaze darted to hers with strange frequency, simultaneously eyeing the waterfall to her right. A clear of his throat had her head cocking to the side, forehead furrowed.

The he whispered softly, taking up a place by her side, "If I was to fall over this ledge and into the chasm below, and the only way to save me would be to jump over as well—?"

"Excuse me, Your Highnesses?"

Both of them whirled, and a servant girl stood in the spot of grass where they'd been laying. The indentations of their bodies still marked the patch, despite the wind that ruffled the thin blades.

"Yes?" Ava said, brows raised.

"It's the queen. Her Majesty has made an announcement."

Castoran swapped a glance with Ava. "Yes?" she repeated, motioning for the girl to continue. "What is it?"

"She's begun the process of having the babe. Your father has asked for all the children to wait in one of the the adjoining halls."

Her heart leaped in her chest. Her brother. Her new baby brother was on his way. She felt Castoran's hand brush against her arm, a comforting, light touch.

"How long?" she muttered.

"The process began several hours ago. But the queen is in the thick of it now. If I might escort you, Princess? Prince?"

She beckoned with a gentle wave, inviting them to walk before her. They obliged after another shared look, striding through the grasses and to the door leading to the winding halls.

By this time tomorrow, she'd have a new brother. Another child to look after, another babe to protect. And she would. With her whole heart, she'd protect all of them. Each one of her siblings, as being the eldest demanded.

She'd protect everyone she could. All her cousins and friends. Gwen and Gaveon. Kathryn-Marie, Lyanna and Terence. Castoran.

Castoran. His unfinished question resounded in her mind, his nervous warmth bleeding into her.

_If I were to fall over this ledge and into the chasm below…_

It was obvious what he'd been about to say. And she knew her own answer without so much as a heartbeat of thought.

"No, I wouldn't save you," she said, elbowing him in the ribs. But as he looked into her eyes with his sapphire ones, he smiled, gentle and muted.

He _had_ given her the liberty to lie.

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~ hope you enjoyed, don't forget to leave a review!

xo


	6. New Prince

Aelin is in labor. | Chaol shares a moment with his daughter.

disclaimer: sarah j. maas owns all (minus the new generation).

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Gods, _gods_—

She bared her teeth, gripping the hand wrapped around hers with painful ferocity. _You have done this before. You have done this before. You have done this before._

The words were a chant in her bones, a song in her blood as she dug her nails into the tattooed flesh of Rowan's hand. The pain seized her, _throttled_ her, tightening, coiling, _burning_ from hip to hip, up her spine and down her legs. _You have done this before. You have done this before._

Aelin gnashed her jaws as the pain flared, growing until—

She blew out a breath. And the agony receded. Just enough that her grip loosened, and her nails left behind red crescent-shaped grooves on the back of Rowan's hand. He hadn't even winced.

"How much longer, Yrene," he growled. Not a question.

Even in her exhausted haze, could see the panic in his face, the alarm whenever she cried out or slammed her fist into their bed beneath her. She wanted to tell him it was fine, that she was alright. But the only sound she could force from her lips was a hoarse groan, her breath coming in short pants. _You have done this before_.

She had entered the room sometime between dawn and noon, and from the royal suite she could see the sun pull across the sky, reaching for the horizon. Twelve hours. She had been here, soldiering through each bout of pain, for twelve hours. She might have echoed Rowan's question, if she didn't instead choose to cherish this moment of relief. It would not last as much as she would have liked, she knew.

"Not long now," Yrene said, gesturing to Terence, who stood behind her, scribbling away on his pad of paper—jotting down the times, the duration of each seizing of pain and the moments of rest in between, no doubt. Yrene, sitting beside the bed, continued wiping a silky cloth across Aelin's forehead, her other hand rubbing small circles on the nape of Aelin's neck. "I'd say about half an hour before you'll be ready to push."

Half an hour. She repressed her moan.

Thirty whole minutes of hissing through her clenched teeth and gripping Rowan's hand until it went purple. Magnificent.

He hadn't spoken much. He never did, when it was time for her to birth their children. And she was grateful; she would have snapped at him if he did. Such was her frustration that she didn't care what came out of her mouth anymore.

So she blurted, "If you ever get me pregnant again, I'll smother you in your sleep." The words spilled forth in a tumbling string, quick and smarting.

Unfazed, he merely pushed a gust of soothing wind against her chest, her neck, her face. It seemed to stroke her, licking coolly up her skin. "That's another tally. Of all the horrible things that come out of your mouth. And if I recall correctly, you weren't complaining during the process," he answered back, a forced smirk playing on his lips. Yrene flushed, and her son hid a snicker.

She didn't have to guess much to know what Rowan was doing. He was trying not to seem uneasy. Trying to calm her. She scowled and looked to the bed's canopy, tightening her grip on his hand.

"The children?"

"Waiting in another hall." From the corner of her eye, she could see him glance to Yrene and Terence. "Chaol and Lyanna, too."

Good. Aelin could see their faces in her mind's eye, and it was an effective distraction, picturing them. She saw Ava, playing with Castoran and Amora, the latter chatting happily to them with her developing vocabulary. Rendyll was likely asking Chaol about the theater in Rifthold, comparing it with Delles. He was the only one that had shown any interest in music, and she almost smiled as she remembered how he would watch her, mesmerized, as she played for him when he was a toddling infant. Almost; the spells of pain allowed little more than a grimace.

As for Reavan, he was probably toying with his colorful hunks of clay. Aelin briefly wondered if Lyanna sat with him, listening to him prattle on about how to make turrets of argil or which color complemented which. But then remembered the young lady's eyes—how they'd looked in the past few days. Full of a quiet rage, with a touch of sorrow lining the bronze irises.

She'd since dismissed Felix Ardere with dishonor and disgrace.

Aelin groaned as another wave of pain crashed upon her, and Yrene's ministrations hurried to soothe her. It was like an uphill—the seething cramp climbing, gripping her tighter, tighter, tighter—

She gasped. Choked.

Tighter, tighter, _tighter_.

And tighter still.

Oh gods oh gods oh gods.

"Rowan—" The air came up short in her lungs.

"This is the hardest part, Aelin," he muttered. "Remember, you get through this, and the rest is quick. It'll be over quick." His voice was hard, hemmed with fear.

She yelped, pounding against the mattress with a balled hand. Gods, she could do nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just lay here, writhing like a worm until the babe was ready to come out.

_You have done this before. You have done this before._

Up, up, up. Tighter, tighter. Nearing the peak. Cresting. Looking over. Hesitating. And... and...

Aelin exhaled, eyes watering. She blinked the tears away, just as the pain fell over the other side of the hill, as it skidded downwards, pulling back like the ocean calls back a wave. She was spent. Completely, utterly spent. The sheer demand of it all, the sapping away of her strength... Her tears were not just from the pain.

The other children had not required so much time. Eleven hours, maximum. But this child had surpassed that—and there he still was, inside her.

Knowing there would be no reply, she silently asked him, _Spare Mama some discomfort, please?_

Silence, as Rowan kept pushing small breezes onto her, as Yrene kept wiping the sweat from her face. Quiet settled in, heavy and hot, and—

It was so faint, she almost didn't catch it.

A breath. A sigh. High-pitched and soft, that of a babe's coo. _Her_ babe's coo.

It bounced around in her head, airy and light, like a brush of feathers against flesh. "Did... did you hear that?" she ground out to her companions.

"Hear what, Aelin?"

"The... he made a sound." Had she imagined it? In her bleary fog, had her mind tricked her? Rowan and Yrene shared a look, curiosity mingling on the healer's expression, confusion etched on her mate's.

No. No, she knew what she'd heard. It was the babe, it had to be. How, she wasn't sure. _Why,_ she wasn't sure. But the echo of his breath pinged in her head, the quiet peals sweeping against her skull.

_Can you hear me, little one? Can you hear Mama?_

And this time...

Nothing. Not even a whisper.

She closed her eyes. Willed her mind to search deeper, further, to listen more carefully—

The wave crashed.

Aelin could not keep from howling as the pain seized her, wrapped its lethal tendrils around her body in a vice-like, clawed grasp. She vaguely felt Rowan take her face in one hand, the other still wrapped around hers. Dimly registered his words as his mouth moved, his eyes the only light in her dark cloud.

Pine and snow and rubies and—

Rutting gods. Rutting _gods_.

"Aelin?"

Sinking. Sinking. Sinking.

Deeper, deeper.

_Tighter_.

"Aelin?" The words were a mutter. Or they could have been a shout. She didn't know. Her ears rang, and if it weren't for her weakened muscles, she might have pressed her palms against them.

"Yrene," her mate hissed, "What's happening."

"Something's wrong. Aelin? Aelin can you hear me? Aelin, you need to... don't try to... keep... breathe..." She could only pick out words, as if her head was being dunked under a milky black pool of water. Could only catch small things as the tendrils pulled her in, took her further into their embrace.

Pain was everywhere. It shot through her belly like charring wildfire, melting her bones, searing her muscles.

She couldn't move.

_You have done this before. You have done this before_.

_But this has not happened before. This has not happened before_.

Terror. It was horrible terror that now joined the agony, that ripped through her senses like a hot knife through butter. Her heart stumbled in her chest. Then galloped, as if trying to outrun the chaos of it all. Then stumbled again.

A yell in the distance. "Terence, Rowan, I need you to—"

The wave crashed again. And this time...

A golden flare of light. A delicious warmth seeping into her skin and flesh. Magic. Yrene's magic. Joined with her son's. And another warmth, strangely cool at the same time, smelling of home.

Healing magic. But... why? Healing was... for broken things. For mending things. Was she broken? Was some part of her hurt? In the blinding pain, she couldn't tell. The bones of her legs might have been shattered, and she'd have no idea.

"Aelin..." His voice.

"Aelin..." Her voice.

Their voices. Growing quieter and quieter with each passing minute. She was falling far from the surface, vanishing…

Then, blackness.

༺═──────────────═༻

It was taking long. Longer than Terence's birth, longer than Lyanna's. And longer than the other Galathynius children's. He would know. He'd been here for all of them.

Chaol Westfall sat before the hearth in the warm hall, fingers drumming on the arm of his wheeled chair. The room was filled with soft chatter and light music, the princesses prating to each other excitedly. Rendyll gently plucked the strings of his lyre, perched on an ottoman opposite Chaol, while Ava, Castoran, and Amora sat in a circle, trading tales and fables and dreams. Lyanna had planted herself on a plush maroon couch separate from the rest of them, staring at her pad of parchment and dragging a paint-soaked brush across the grey surface.

Her brown-gold eyes were molten, burning holes into her work.

Chaol's little girl was not so little anymore. He remembered clearly the days when she would paint him and gift him the illustration. Or sleep between him and Yrene when she'd had a nightmare. Or dance across their manor's courtyard in a whirlwind of steel and iron, adoring the wind in her hair and the balance of the sword in her hand as they sparred.

They still trained together, of course. But they hadn't in a while. And it made his heart crack a bit with every day that passed.

In the firelight, even with a scowl on her freckled face, she was lovely. Her chocolate hair was cast in golden shimmers, shadows drawing across her high cheekbones and thick eyelashes. He could see parts of himself there, too; her lips, the shape of her eyes. His beautiful daughter. Broken-hearted.

She thought he was unaware. He might have been, were it not for Yrene's knowing looks whenever Lyanna had asked to visit Terrasen back home. And when he'd gone to bid her a good morning after their first night here, he'd seen the redness of her eyes, the colored ashes of paintings burned in her fireplace. They'd probably been paintings of _him_. That boy.

Chaol's hand twitched toward his sword at the thought of him. Felix Ardere, his wife had said. After his dismissal from the Aelin's employ, Chaol had gone to give him three good strikes on the nose.

One for wasting Aelin's time and resources. Another for the other girl he'd been stringing along, likely unaware of Lyanna's existence in Ardere's life. And the last one, the strongest, bone-shattering one, he'd dealt for his daughter.

His knuckles were still bruised. But when he looked at them, he felt no ounce of regret. Only boiling anger as he remembered Ardere poorly attempting to defend himself, and poorly attempting to run away.

But... it was all in the past now. And he hoped she'd learned a few things from it all.

Slowly, he wheeled his chair toward her, his eyes never leaving her face as he did. Yrene's magic had been steadily depleting since the afternoon started. Several minutes ago, he could still feel his toes, his ankles. Now, it was all silent, unresponsive.

He didn't care.

Lyanna did not move, or even look up as he took a place beside the arm of the couch, his chair gliding along the smooth tiles of the floor. She just kept guiding the brush across the canvas in silky strokes, eyes still burning holes into it, a muscle in her cheek feathering.

"It's not going to spontaneously combust, no matter how much you glare at it."

She spared him a glance, continuing her swirling. "I'm not glaring." A peek over the arm of the couch, and he was met with livid scarlet and dark charcoal.

"Well, I'd fetch a mirror, but..." He gestured to his legs. And earned the ghost of a smile from her—one so feeble, he might have imagined it. His heart strained for her. "I know what this is about, Lea," he said.

She froze, eyes sliding to him once more. "You know... what?"

"I know," he repeated simply, brushing a lock of her hair back and hooking it behind an ear. "And I want _you_ to know that I'm not angry. That I understand."

She gaped, but closed her mouth as soon as it opened, blinking. "How did you... Was it Aunt Aelin?"

"No," he muttered, "No, it wasn't Aelin. You're just not very good at hiding things." He winked, before adding somberly, "And... I'm sorry if I've made you feel like you couldn't come to me about this. If I've been excessively stern, or—"

Lyanna set her still-wet canvas aside, leaped from the couch and threw her arms around him, carefully leaning over his chair. It wasn't a second before he settled his hands on her back and held her close. "No, it was me," she said. "It was all me. I'm _such_ an idiot, and I was—"

He flicked her ear. "Don't say that. Don't ever say that." Chaol pulled away, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Anyone... anyone can be fooled by the wrong person."

A flash of his memory showed him a woman he hadn't thought of in a long while—not in years and years. Why would he, when Yrene Towers wore a ring akin to his and slept beside him every night? When she'd bore him two beautiful children, when she was the savior of this world, the Hero of Erilea?

Lyanna heard the hitch in his voice, the slight distaste. "Anyone?" A raise of her eyebrows was all he needed to decipher her meaning. _Even you?_

"Anyone. Even me. And her name was Lithaen."

So few people knew about her. Aelin, for one. Dorian. He'd never even thought to tell Yrene. Thinking of it, he wasn't sure if he should; it was so trivial now, so unimportant. And what did it matter? He'd never seen or heard from her again. For all he knew, she'd been killed in the war. Or she still lived, living off of some rich merchant or lord she'd roped into a marriage. Either way, he couldn't bring himself to care much.

"Lithaen?"

"Yes," he said softly. "She betrayed me, as he betrayed you. I've been in your position, and it crushed me." He kept his voice low, so only she could hear. "I made mistakes because of it." _Like using Nesryn_. "But then..."

"Then you met Aelin," she muttered.

"Well, yes. But I mean after that, when I found your mother."

He smiled. Lyanna's mother, who'd despised him, who'd nearly refused to heal him. But whose soul was compassionate enough to find it within itself to _try_, to undertake the near-impossible task. Her mother, who was perhaps the loveliest person, inward and outward, in the known realms. Who demolished demon armies and climbed mountains and crossed seas.

"You'll find your Yrene Towers," Chaol said, taking his daughter's hand. "Or perhaps you already have."

She scoffed. "Yes, because there are gorgeous golden-eyed healers just waltzing around, waiting to be approached by one Lyanna Westfall."

Chaol chuckled, shaking his head. "I said _perhaps_. And he doesn't have to be a healer. He only needs to treat your heart like it's more precious than any jewel. That is all I want for you." He stretched up to kiss her hair again, guiding her by the hand to her seat on the couch.

She settled against the lush cushions, and he could have sworn some of that rage had faded from her eyes.

Silence settled for a few moments. Until she mumbled, "You know... you never did tell us about you and Aelin."

He sighed. "It's a long story." That was an understatement. "One that's not entirely pleasant."

In response, she scooted closer and rested her chin in her hand. And he cracked a another smile, opening his mouth to begin with that fateful day that changed the world, when he and Dorian had plucked her from Endovier's iron-wrought grip and took her to Rifthold.

But the door to the hall opened, the lock clicking heavily. And—

Lyanna gasped. The royal children shot to their feet. Chaol's heart stopped in his chest.

"Rowan—" he rasped.

The king stepped into the warm light of the room, one foot inside, the other still planted in the outer corridor. "Ava," he growled, a hand waving her over. A large, bloody hand. The princess hesitated for a moment, but obeyed, horror lining her pine-green gaze.

For Rowan was heavily stained; the front of his clothes, his fingers and wrists, gleamed with dark crimson liquid. It could only belong to one person, Chaol realized with a pang of dread. And as he looked upon Rowan's face, as he beheld the Fae male who'd fought the foulest creatures and witnessed terrifying sights...

There had never been more blatant fear in his expression. Not even when Aelin had destroyed the Wrydkeys, and they'd both been forced to watch as she stood in her ring of Wrydmarks, motionless, there but _not _there. As she faded and faded from this world, as the bond between the queen and her mate grew thinner and thinner.

"Rendyll," Rowan said.

The boy was trembling. With their Fae senses, Chaol didn't doubt the children could smell the blood, would know in an instant it was their mother's. Rendyll blinked, his Ashryver eyes gleaming with tears, and followed his sister, his lyre all but forgotten on the ottoman behind him.

Quick as an adder, Castoran snatched up a whimpering Amora and pressed her face into his shoulder, whispering soothing words into her hair. Lyanna lurched for Reavan, who looked as if he might faint, his face paler than a morning cloud. She folded the young prince into her arms, sweeping him up and holding him tightly.

Chaol's limbs responded before his mind did. They propelled him toward Rowan and his two eldest, who watched him as he approached.

"What happened?" he asked quietly.

A grit of the king's teeth. "There were complications. Not... uncommon with Fae births. We need all the magic we can get." He paused, slowly lowering himself into a crouch to meet his children's eyes. "Your mother..." He might have choked on the words. "Your mother is in grave condition."

Ava let out a sob through her clenched jaw. Rendyll gripped her hand.

"The Lady Yrene and I need you two," Rowan continued, blinking his own tears away. "The others are too young. They should not see such things, not yet."

"What things?" Rendyll whispered.

"You'll see. I need you to be brave. Braver than you've ever been before. For your new little brother, who will need his mother just as you need her. For her, so that she may raise him and know him and love him with us. And for me. Because I cannot—" An audible swallow. "I—cannot imagine living without her."

The children were crying now, without shame and without any damper. "Can you be brave?" Rowan asked them.

Their nods were all the confirmation the king needed. Without another word, he grabbed them both by their fingers, and they let themselves be led through the heavy door, unbothered by the caked blood on their father's hands.

Leaving Chaol with his daughter, Castoran, and a weeping prince and princess to look after.

༺═──────────────═༻

Ava's breath came in shallow pants. Because looking at her father's hands, his clothes... She fought the urge to run to the nearest potted plant and vomit.

Fear—cold, brutal fear—swamped her veins as they hurriedly strode for her parents' suite. Was this her fault? Had she tested fate by thinking her mother was invincible? Had she mocked it? The thought was horrible enough to make her trip over her own foot. She would have been sent careening to the floor, were it not for her father's tight grip on her hand. He quickly steadied her, continuing his brisk pace.

Rendyll stood on the king's other side, clutching his arm. One look at his face had her gulping down a steady breath, doing her best to school her features into neutrality. She failed miserably, of course. But she had to be strong, at least a bit. For her little brother, looking as terrified as she felt. She caught his eye, giving him a look she hoped conveyed her thoughts. _I'm with you_.

He answered with a small dip of his chin.

Together. They would face this together, as a family.

Ava looked to their father. "Papa."

She hadn't called him that since she was six.

He cast her a sidelong glance, pine-green irises glossy. It terrified her to no end, seeing her father's gaze filled with unshed, daunted tears. "Yes?"

"What... what will you have us do?"

A rumble deep within his throat. "Let your magic do its work. Search within your mother's body for... injury. Heal whatever you can."

She could only nod. Rendyll did the same, albeit with distant eyes.

On and on they slid forth, the suite looming. A part of her wanted to run away, run far from the thought of her mother so helpless and feeble. To where she might pretend this was all some nightmare, some vision brought on by Castoran's creative tale-telling. And another part of her wished to bound for the room, to lay her hands on the queen and let her soft magic weave itself through her bones, through her blood. To ensure her new brother would know their mother, love her like they all did. Would see her for the mighty force that she was.

And if their mother did not survive...

No. She wouldn't think about that. It was no use, helped no one and nothing.

Ava forced her chin up, ignoring the wobble of her lip. Their father kept leading them, never letting go of their hands, until finally—or perhaps, too soon—they reached the massive doors to the royal suite. But instead of entering, their father pulled them both in front of him, so they were shoulder to shoulder, their backs to the doors.

"Remember," the king said. "No matter what you see, you must be strong. And regardless of what happens, I love you. That will never change. Do not feel responsible if... if this doesn't go according to plan."

_He means if we fail_.

Oh, gods. She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat.

"Papa, I'm afraid," Rendyll admitted, chin trembling. Their father slid his hand from her brother's, reaching out to stroke the young prince's face.

"I'm afraid, too. Your mother... is everything to me. And I'm going to pour my very soul into saving her. Will you help me?"

Everything. Because theirs was a love so powerful, they would defy anything, defy anyone, for each other. They'd told her of that day—when Ava's mother had been possessed by a goddess, had been poised to destroy an entire city with a single blow. But her father planted himself between them. And such was their bond that her mother managed to clutch that goddess by the throat and haul her out, thrust the deity from her body so that she might never harm her mate.

Ava didn't need to think twice. "Yes."

"Yes," Rendyll echoed.

And with that, the king nodded, scrubbing at his face—smearing blood across his cheeks in the process—and slowly cracked opened the door.

The first thing that hit her was the scent, like a wet rag to the face. It was potent enough on her father's hands and clothes, the irony tang an unpleasant slink up her nostrils, made all the worse with hints of lemon verbena and crackling embers. But _here_—

She reined in her gag. As she entered, she saw Rendyll fighting a retch.

Then she turned. And saw him. Her heart skipped a beat.

Tiny. Pink. Whimpering.

The babe. Something filled Ava's chest, familiar and warm, as she beheld her newest sibling. He was a bit big for a newborn, filling the hollow created by Terence's arms. At her stare, the healer's son looked up, face grim despite the new life he held.

"Is he alright?" she managed to voice.

Terence, golden irises burning, dipped his head—just slightly. "Yes," he muttered. "He's healthy."

Healthy. Her throat closed as she stood on her toes and peeked over Terence's wrinkled sleeve, a downy flaxen head greeting her. Along with squinted eyes, fawn-brown eyes—

"Ava," her father called. With a frown, she reluctantly tore her gaze away.

And immediately regretted it.

Oh, she was going to be sick. Her mother. Her _mother_.

The satin slip she was clad in had been white once. And the sheets beneath her had been white once. But white no more. Crimson. Scarlet. Sanguine.

Ava choked.

Lady Yrene stood tense beside the bed, hands glowing with warm light as they hovered over the queen's body. She looked ready to faint, with shadows hanging over her face, lips pressed into a line. She was exhausted. And from the waning shine of her palms, her magic was fading, too.

Gods' ashes.

"Alright," the healer said. "Ava, I want you here, next to me. Rendyll and Rowan, her other side."

Ava immediately obeyed, too horrified to do anything else. Out of all her siblings, she had the most powerful healing magic. But even with it, with Rendyll's and their father's and Lady Yrene's... would it be enough?

Yes. Yes, it had to be.

Slowly, she brought her hands up, opening them wide above her mother's abdomen and letting them flare a bright white as she stumbled to Lady Yrene's side.

Her mother's face... her heart ached to see it so pale. So devoid her lovely light, of her playful smirks and her flashed grins. Beautiful. Her mother was so beautiful, at times igniting a spark of jealousy within Ava's chest. Even beyond the skin and muscles and bones. Beyond the mere sight of her.

This had to work. It had to.

Rendyll held out his hands, as did their father beside him. And together, they laid their hands upon Aelin Galathynius.

Ava's magic was not like Yrene's. She could not see with it, could not probe or assess. She could only feel the magnetic pull of a wound, desperate to be healed, drawing the magic in like a moth to a flame. And as Ava's magic sunk into the queen, there were flames everywhere.

Her body ached where it should not have. Injuries smarted where she had none. She could feel the pain, the ghost of what her mother had just endured. With a desperate keen, she thrust out her misty power, letting it wrap around the wounded flesh like a salve upon a burn.

Ava could feel the others doing the same. Rendyll's magic, a cleansing flame, washed through their mother's body, sewing the tears in her essence and sending ripples of light into the dwindling parts of her. A cool wind brushed past, sliding through the tongues of near-invisible fire, mending any broken thing it found—their father's magic, working alongside theirs.

And perhaps the most powerful of all, Yrene's. A stream of flowing luminescence, cascading throughout like melted sunlight. Ava sensed its warmth, radiating and pulsing, potent even in its depleted state.

Four magics joining hands, pouring their might into the queen's body like a river falling over a ledge, down to a pool below. Each different, each wonderful, each salubrious. Restoring. Healing, healing, _healing_.

And deep within Ava's chest, a ray of hope flared.

༺═──────────────═༻

Strange to be in darkness when they'd worked so hard to build this new world of light.

The spiral downward seemed endless, a bottomless pit as the well of her power had once been. She broke through barrier after barrier, net after tangled net.

Nets intended to catch her, to slow her fall. Or was that her imagination?

Down, down, down.

Further, further, further.

Was this it? Was this her end? After the greed of so many kings—possessed kings, assassin kings, Valg kings—after the torture of a queen with a spider's smile...

After waking up in a bloody bed, a woman's scream echoing through the halls of her family's summer manor.

After fighting with gritted teeth, day after day, in a salt mine miles from her home.

After lashes and more lashes from sadistic males bearing bloodied whips.

After blackness darker the depths of the sea—so, so much darker—being thrust upon her like a blanket of horror, of silence, of _despair, despair, and more despair_.

Fear. Panic. Dread.

They each thrummed through her heart, her blood, like coursing wildfire, scorching everything in its path, burning her alive—

No. _No_.

_My name is Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius. And I will not be afraid. My name is Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius. And I will not be afraid_.

The darkness was gripping her like a lifeline, choking her. Surrounding her. Like an iron coffin. Smothering her. Like an iron mask. Incapacitating her. Like iron gauntlets.

Gods. _Gods_—

The fall seemed to swoop through her insides, her stomach jumping into her throat. Never-ending. Eternal. Eternal pain, eternal misery.

Her fight against the Valg princes, brutal and vicious, only for her to end up here. Her defiance against the gods who plotted to raise her like a pig for slaughter, just to die like this. Her war against the Valg king and queen, horrible, _horrible_, like nothing the world should ever have witnessed—to achieve a mere nineteen years of a peaceful reign, and then sink into such a vile tenebrosity.

And yet... nineteen years. Nineteen whole, wonderful, perfect years.

Nineteen. Years.

Filled with pine-green eyes and dancing children and joyful tears and bubbling laughter. Such happiness as she'd never known. Sitting upon her throne, with her daughters and sons playing around her, with a mate whose soul mirrored hers to stand beside her, with dear friends in every corner of the continent, with the kingsflame blooms testament to her deepest desire—to love and cherish and protect Terrasen with each drop of strength in her body...

Tears burned her eyes.

She could feel herself fading. Could sense her body becoming mist in the sweeping air, nothing more than specks of blood and sparking embers. Was this the end?

_My name is Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius. And I will not be a—_

A mighty, cold force enveloped her, such as she'd never felt before...

Except that she had. She _had_—long, long ago. In a desperate flee from thundering hoof beats, from an assassin and his death blow, from the sacrifice a noble lady had made to help her get free. It was water. Water, icy and frozen and suffocating.

She was choking. She was drowning. She was going to _die_.

Her arms shot out like spears through air, flailing helplessly against the frigid current. But it batted her like a ragdoll, sending her hurtling by, an aimless stone being dragged. And for all her flames, they were powerless against the black river.

In a hopeless attempt, she flung out a hand—

There. A log. A soggy, rotten, wonderful log. She clawed her fingers, nails sinking into the soiled bark. And she _pulled_. Pulled as hard as she could muster, until both arms were wound around the wood and her head broke the surface. She gulped down a breath, greedy for air—

But the air was not a relief. It was cutting and cold, slicing her throat like a knife through flesh. Rasping, she kicked her legs, desperate to reach the bank that appeared out of the blackness. With a gasp that seemed to pierce her lungs, she gritted her teeth and shoved the log away. A few strokes, and she'd be on steady earth.

The mud beneath her was like a wet, frozen embrace as she crawled onto that bank. And collapsed on it.

She was cold.

She was so, so cold.

Each breath was more difficult than the last, running holes through her chest like needle-sharp icicles. Slower. Slower. The wind in her became slower.

This was the end. That fight. Her fight. All of it—the whole damn thing. It was over. And all she would leave behind...

She couldn't summon the strength to bolt upright. She could only shed those hot tears, the only warmth in this bitter mud. Because what she would leave behind... A sob broke through her teeth.

An adoring mate. Two beautiful daughters. Two—now _three_ darling sons.

Her newest boy. He'd been born already, of that she was sure. Distantly, she'd felt him slip free, vaguely heard his first cry. Heard Rowan whisper frantic, loving words to the child through this haze of utter gloom. Before it was all snuffed out, and all that was left was the plummet into oblivion.

Her newborn son. Having lost his mother before she could hold him. Before she could kiss him and weep for him and clutch him to her chest.

She began to cry. In earnest, in lack of hope, in complete heartbreak.

Her child. Her baby boy. Would she be forced to watch him grow from the Afterworld?

Her tears came like a boundless stream, pouring from her in warm tracks. Her heart ached. Ached for the male he would grow into, blaming himself, always, for her passing. She could not imagine anything worse.

_Not your fault,_ she wanted to tell him.

His breath, that tiny, glorious breath echoed in her skull.

_My little one_, she thought, lips not able to form the words. _I love you. You are not at fault. I love you_.

_I love you_.

Another sob escaped her.

_Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius, I love you._

_Ava Whitethorn Galathynius, I love you._

_Rendyll Whitethorn Galathynius, I love you._

_Reavan Whitethorn Galathynius, I love you._

_Amora Whitethorn Galathynius, I love you._

_I love you._

_I love you, I love you, I love you_.

_Yrene Towers Westfall. Chaol Westfall. Terence Westfall. Lyanna Westfall. Dorian Havilliard. Manon Blackbeak. Castoran Havilliard. _

_I love you._

_Elide Lochan. Kathryn-Marie Lochan. Fenrys Moonbeam. Evangeline. Nesryn Faliq. Ansel of Briarcliff._

_I love you._

_Aedion_—

She choked at the thought. But dutifully continued, praying to whatever or whoever might listen that her friends could all hear.

_Aedion Ashryver. Lysandra. Gaveon Ashryver. Gwen Ashryver._

_I. Love. You._

_Goodbye._

On and on, the tears fell. Countless, like the stars in the night sky. Which she would never see again. Like the number of sunrises she thought she'd had. Like the amount of times she'd made love to her husband, her perfect match, her mate.

They fell. And fell. And fell.

Falling. Sinking. Vanishing.

Into nothing.

And nothing beckoned. _Come and rest,_ it said. _Come and find your peace._

But how could she find her peace? Knowing her new son wailed into empty air, little arms searching for a mother he would never find?

Knowing she would never get to witness her daughters' first loves, never get to teach them they were not a shred less brave or fierce than any male. Would never see her sons find their partners, learn to protect them, as she and Rowan protected each other. Would never look upon her children, Settled, grown, strong.

Knowing the blow to Rowan's heart... it would resound through him for the rest of his days, regardless of the joy their children filled him with. He'd once thought he'd lost a mate. And it broke him. Shattered his spirit so thoroughly, he'd lost himself. What would happen to him when their true mating bond snapped, vanished, splintered like fraying threads of rope?

He would raise them, she knew, as best he could. Look after Terrasen, as was his duty. But always remain with hollow eyes and an empty soul.

No. She would not find her peace.

And it was knowing that made her weep with renewed sorrow. She was not ready. She had entered her suite thinking a new life would bloom into existence. She hadn't considered a life might be taken.

But... life for a life.

For her son. For her son... it was not the worst way to go.

And so, tears still flowing, Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius closed her eyes.

And reluctantly, painfully, accepted the blackness into her heart.

A final breath. The final breath. The final fall—

"Aelin."

Her heart, its beating slow, sputtered.

She did not dare open her eyes. That voice. That _voice_.

After all this time, after all these years, she had not forgotten it—not for a single second. She could hear it in her dreams, could hear it as she stood in her garden, or whenever she beheld that shield, scarred and dented and damaged. But not broken. Like Terrasen. Scarred and damaged. Burdened with smarting memories. But not broken. Not broken.

Never broken.

And another memory surfaced. One she treasured, despite the gods-awful conditions. Despite the disgusting male that had dragged his knife over her coffin, mere inches away from her. Despite the mask that threatened to devour her.

Never broken.

_You do not yield_.

"Aelin," the voice called again.

_My name is Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius. And I will not be afraid._

_You do not yield._

"Aelin."

She opened her eyes, the tears burning. And it was not an ancient queen who greeted her, as it had been during her first death. No. His chocolate hair still brushed against his face, handsome as ever, kind and young. And his eyes, brown like a newborn fawn, crinkled as he gave her a smile.

Her chest gave a pang at the sight of it. At the sight of him crouched before her.

"Hello, Aelin."

"Father?" she breathed.

A soft chuckle. "How far you've come."

Her tears were still sliding down her cheeks, leaving salt tracks in their wake. Her father. He was here, he was real. As real as her own hand as she extended it before her, eager to touch him, to feel his hand in hers as she hadn't since she was a young girl.

Slowly, he set their palms together.

And she cried more forcefully than ever, pulling him forward and leaning her forehead against their joined hands. "Father," she repeated. "Father."

"You have done your duty as queen, Aelin. You have defended Terrasen. You have protected it. And your mother and I could not be any more proud."

This was it. He'd come to take her to the Afterworld. Where she would be with them again. Reunited with them, finally—and apart from her own family.

Yet if she was with her parents... the wait to see her mate and children again would not be so long, she supposed.

"But you've since taken on a new duty." A flashing grin. "You are a mother now."

And despite her situation, despite her condition, she found it within herself to laugh. "Yes," she said, her grin quickly fading as she felt her lips pull into a frown. "And I wish you could have met them. They would have loved you. And... I wish you could have met Rowan."

"An honor that will be, when that day comes. When you both leave Terrasen to your children. Together."

Together.

Together?

"W... What?"

Hadn't he come to accompany her during the journey to the realm of the dead? Was that not why he was here? It was done—she and Rowan were separated now. Only when he faded would she see him again.

"Aelin. My girl." With the hand that wasn't wrapped around hers, he reached out and brushed away a strand of hair. "They will not know a childhood without their mother. None of them."

And hope, shining and lovely, sparked in her heart. Driving out the darkness she'd let in. It seemed to manifest itself in the dark atmosphere, dancing in arcs of blue and yellow and white. Something about those arcs seemed familiar, but she pushed the thought away.

She still didn't understand. She told him as much.

His pearly teeth glinted, even in shadow, as he said, "This doesn't have to be your end. It is not your time."

That hope ignited into a flame, glowing and lively and—

"But... why have I fallen?"

His smile turned sad. "You have come close to death many times. But none so close as this. The choice is yours, Aelin. Stay down, and fade. Or rise, and meet your new son."

He lifted himself from his crouch, offering his hand out to her. To help her get up.

_Get up_.

A brutal fight in Adarlan blazed through her mind. Along with bronze eyes. A chain between two hearts snapping into place.

_Get up_.

Another voice. Or rather, other voices.

Aelin's, as she had once looked upon her own face—that of the young princess—while in the thrall of those Valg princes.

His, as he'd stood nearby. Sam's.

Hers. Nehemia's.

And the Lady Marion's.

_Get up_.

Get. Up.

With a heave of her tired bones, her weakened muscles, Aelin took her father's hand as it hovered in the air between them. Gripped it tight as she inhaled sharply, the cold air still cutting her throat.

And with a painful haul of her body, up, up, up...

For Rowan. For Ava. For Rendyll and Reavan, for Amora and the babe. For her mother. For her father.

Higher and higher she lifted herself.

For her family.

_You do not yield_.

And she arose.

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~ your thoughts?

xo


	7. Named

Aelin meets her newest son.

disclaimer: sarah j. maas owns all (minus the new generation).

༺═──────────────═༻

She wasn't breathing.

But she was.

Her skin was like pale ash, the fading sun setting it in a wash of sickly yellow and white. _Just open your eyes_, Yrene screamed in her mind. _Open your eyes_.

There was nothing. Not even a flutter of eyelashes, not a tiny gasp of breath.

Aelin's children were spent, their magic since-depleted. They could only grasp the queen's limp hand, could only lay their little palms on their father's back as he held Aelin's face with such tenderness, such reverence. Across the room, Terence watched with a hollowed expression, arms mindlessly bouncing the newest prince. He loved his aunt. Seeing her light go out would not allow him to rest easy for a time.

But—no. Aelin's light had not gone out, not yet.

_You fight_. Yrene flung the thought at her like a stone, even if Aelin could not hear. _You fight, gods' ashes be damned_.

Across from her, she could see an internal battle raging in Rowan, evident in the distant flaring of his eyes. He'd witnessed his mate almost dying before. The flashbacks had to have been speeding through his head, as if he was trapped within a cart rolling through a never-ending mineshaft. Yrene knew the feeling.

There were still nights when she dreamt of Chaol's body, broken and battered by the Princess Duva when he'd first gone to Antica. When she beheld him, all their hard work undone, the man she loved on the brink of such a violent death...

She wouldn't wish that kind of pain on anyone. Especially not her friend.

But here they were. When no amount of magic could save Aelin now; only she could save herself. If she remembered the family she so fiercely adored, remembered the kingdom she'd rebuilt and protected.

Her body was healed. Rowan had held her while Yrene and the children changed the sheets on their massive bed, and had also taken his wife into their washroom to rinse her blood-crusted skin and replace the now-ruined slip with a soft long-sleeved gown. Waiting here in silence while he did so was torturous, but so was this. Looking upon her as she remained deep in the clutches of unconsciousness, unable to speak to her, to tell her they loved her, that they needed her.

Ava, rosy cheeks stained with salt tracks, sniffed and reached for her mother's golden locks, small fingers gliding through the strands. "She used to braid my hair every morning," the princess said quietly. "It... it was like our ritual. Before going to her office, she'd come to my chambers and we'd spend those first moments of the day together, sometimes watch the sun as it rose. But... then I learned to do it myself. Now she just comes in to bid me a good morning. I wish I'd asked her to stay more often. Like before."

Rowan stroked his wife's face, his thumbs brushing against her cheekbones. "You can ask her when she wakes," he said gently.

Not giving up. Not until Aelin's body was cold in his hands.

Yrene would have done the same.

Beside his father, Rendyll wiped at his eyes. "I wish I'd watched her play the pianoforte more. She loved to play for me. And I loved listening. That used to be _our_ ritual, every afternoon. Right after lunch."

Despite herself, Yrene smiled. "Every year, for my birthday, she made sure I was 'recognized properly.'" She refrained from rolling her eyes. "Once, she'd coordinated with Dorian and Chaol to make sure the whole of Rifthold was singing to me on my way to the Torre. And not just any old tune. But a song the masters of Delles had composed for me." A blush rose to her cheeks as the memory wove through her mind—and deepened as she recalled what she and Chaol had done on their gold couch that night.

She pushed the thought away as Terence padded toward them, handing the babe to his father. Rowan seemed reluctant to let go of Aelin, but took his son, setting his finger in the prince's tiny grip. "For mine," Terence said, striding around the bed to put an arm around Yrene's shoulders. "She once arranged for me receive tickets to the latest dance at the theater in Rifthold. Complete with backstage access and allowance into the best box, where Uncle Dorian sits whenever he pays a visit. And that's when I first saw Rielle. Aelin's the reason I met her."

His golden irises seemed to glow in the dim light, freckled nose wrinkling slightly as he fought tears.

"She always gets me one thing. Just one," Rowan muttered, gaze still resting on his babe. Though a flash of his eyes had Yrene guessing there was something _else_ Aelin gave him every year.

"What is it?" Ava asked.

"A box of chocolates."

The princess visibly deflated. Her father chuckled faintly—so faintly, it was hardly a whisper in the room's silence. "It might seem dull compared to an entire city chanting in my honor," Rowan said, throwing a weak smile in Yrene's direction. "But it was the first gift ever exchanged between us."

"In Wendlyn?" Rendyll piped in.

"Yes. At Mistward during her nineteenth birthday. When I'd just begun to love her. When I'd just started to see her for how beautiful she was, inside and out. Afterworld knows I hadn't noticed before."

The royal children looked between their parents, gazes sparking with such precious light, with curiosity and wonder at the thought of Aelin and Rowan before either of them had existed, before they'd fought together in that brutal war and ascended to Terrasen's throne. And in turn, Rowan peered at them fondly, before settling his stare on the newborn in his arms. "He... he deserves to have these kinds of memories. He deserves to be able to remember her."

Rendyll ran a knuckle over his brother's foot. "What's his name?"

The king blinked, tilting his head. "We... we were playing around with names the other night. We thought maybe Roman or Rhyen. But looking at him now, nothing seems right."

"How come?" Ava mumbled.

"He's... just not what I anticipated. There's something about him. Strange, and yet familiar. Like an old, forgotten dream."

"You wouldn't want to name him after yourself?" Yrene asked.

Rowan's lips curled, as if the idea was foolish. "I've never wanted to do that. And anyway, there would be confusion. If Aelin addressed me, if she addressed him, we wouldn't know."

"There's always pet names. Or perhaps a numbering system," Rendyll began, his father tossing him amused glance. But—

"Rhoe. His name is Rhoe."

Silence.

Her voice was like gravel, like boots crunching through dry grass. Her swallow was audible as she pressed her lips into a thin line, skin flushing a pale peach color.

"Aelin." The words were a prayer on Rowan's lips, his expression filled with so many emotions—relief, joy, fear, sorrow. Terence's arm tightened on Yrene's shoulders.

"Mother," the children said together, hands automatically reaching for her.

Such blinding comfort washed through Yrene. Like a downpour of summer rain, warm and heavy and rushing. She could not resist the pull she felt, to touch Aelin like her family was doing, to assure herself that the queen was indeed awake, alive, _breathing_.

Breathing. She was breathing.

Aelin coughed, blinking slowly at her mate, at her children. Rowan, balancing their son in one arm, stroked her face, the unshed tears he'd been holding in since she'd fallen unconscious finally diving down his cheeks. They made the tattoo on his face look like wet ink, gleaming with the glow from the braziers.

"Aelin," he said again, lowering his forehead to hers. "_Aelin_."

"I think," she rasped, voice hoarse from her cries during labor. She feebly raised a hand to his jaw, fingers caressing and sweeping against his skin. "That a number system might be an interesting idea, Ren."

The young prince laughed thickly, twitching toward her. Yearning to throw his arms around her, no doubt. But he refrained, instead opting worm his way beneath Rowan to lay next to her and lean into her side. Ava did the same, gripping the queen's silken sleeve.

"But," Aelin continued as Rowan at last lifted his head and crushed his lips into her hair. "But my idea is just... slightly better." A pause as she pulled back to look her mate right in his eyes. As some silent conversation passed between them, private and loving. "What do you say?" she whispered to him.

He didn't hesitate. "I say it's perfect." And he lowered the babe from where he was pressed against the broad plain of Rowan's chest. The king placed him on Aelin's abdomen, gentle as a light wind. "Rhoe Whitethorn Galathynius," he said softly.

Aelin looked ready to sob at the name. But she allowed little more than a wobble of her lip as she gathered her new son into an adoring cradle, kissing his yellow-fuzzed head.

"He's got your hair," Rowan rumbled, tears still flowing.

Aelin choked out a laugh, kissing the babe's nose. "So he does. But not my eyes. Nor yours." One look from the queen's watery gaze, and Yrene knew.

Those warm brown eyes, a few shades lighter than Chaol's, had belonged to Aelin's father. The man who'd been slaughtered in his own bed, along with his wife, leaving his young daughter to find them dead in the morning. Who Yrene sometimes glimpsed in an oil painting hung on the wall of a corridor leading to the great hall.

She ran her fingers through her son's hair, gesturing to the official certificate laying face-down on the rich mahogany desk across the room. "Write it, Terence," she told him.

He kissed her cheek, smiling as he strode over to the piece of parchment.

Then Aelin fixed her attention on her. And the love and gratitude that shone in her turquoise irises... Yrene did her best not to shed tears of her own. She failed, of course, feeling her face wet within seconds.

"Thank you," Aelin said, gesturing not just to her babe, but also to the son and daughter laying with her. "Thank you, Yrene."

Yrene only leaned in and kissed her brow, whispering, "You would do the same."

She knew it in her bones, in her heart and in her soul. To save her... there was nothing Aelin would not do. To save Chaol, or their children. Such was the burning core of the Queen of Terrasen, the love that she so freely showered upon her friends.

"But," Yrene continued, "It was not only me."

"I think Ava and Rendyll should have as many sweets as they desire from now on," Rowan cut in, utter pride evident in his features as he looked at his two eldest.

And Aelin's mouth lifted into a radiant smile, understanding passing over her expression as she stared at her children, as she observed their tired little faces. "My—" her voice broke. "Oh, my loves. Come here."

They tucked themselves into her further, relishing in her warmth, in her now-steadily-beating heart. Like cubs burrowing into a lioness. Yrene beamed.

Then Aelin's eyes turned stormy. "How... how long was I out?"

The last few hours, filled with terror, suddenly blazed through Yrene's head, red and irony. "A long while," she said simply. She didn't want to count the minutes, didn't want to put a label on the time they'd spent filled with utter fear. And it didn't matter, anyway. Aelin was here. She lived still.

The sky was dark outside, speckled with silver stars that seemed to wink at them all. Spring breezes swept through the trees of Oakwald in the distance, ruffling the leaves. Yrene could not hear them, of course. But she pictured it; the wind singing to the land that the new prince was born, the people hearing the melody and rejoicing in their homes...

There would be a festival tomorrow night. There had been one for each royal child, as Orynth welcomed each prince and princess with open, glittering arms. Even for Terence and Lyanna, she knew Terrasen had celebrated. And Rifthold had done the same for Castoran. Each sweet, new addition to their family was like a song to the heavens, a blessing cherished beyond measure.

She sighed, the breath soft in her lungs. "We should tell the others."

Aelin nodded. "I want Reavan and Amora here."

"I'll go," Yrene said, giving her friend a faint smile and gesturing for her son to join her. "We'll be back in a moment."

They shuffled out, her arm linked with Terence's. And she couldn't help but glance at Aelin one last time just as they stood poised to cross the threshold. Even with her human ears, she heard her whispering to the babe from across the room.

"Welcome home."

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There were no more gods. His friend had destroyed them.

She had burned them to ash with her mighty flame, ensured there would be no more world-walking, no more self-seeking deities to preside over their realm.

So there were no more gods. Chaol had no one to pray to. Even then, he tried.

He prayed Yrene was alright. He felt dangerously close to fainting; he could feel Yrene's magic was exhausted, as he could sense in his aching muscles, the heaviness of the air around him. What tiny amount remained was all that was keeping him awake. That and the dread pooling in his stomach.

He prayed the new babe was healthy. He remembered the utter panic, the all-consuming terror he felt when he'd first laid eyes on Terence, as his son entered the world silent as shadow, not a single cry piercing the air. It was such fear that Chaol had not known before, when he wondered for a fraction of a second whether or not he and Yrene would have to lower Terence's tiny body into the earth...

Eventually, their son had let out a high-pitched wail, and Chaol thought it was the most beautiful sound in existence. But even after they'd held him, kissed him, wept over him, a trace of that fear lingered. He hoped his friends would not know that fear.

So he prayed for Aelin. That he would find her in her suite with that insufferable smirk and those glowing Ashryver eyes, holding and bouncing her newborn prince as if she'd not just been in perilous danger.

But again, there were no gods. No one would listen.

He exhaled through clenched teeth, the not-knowing eating at his insides. For all he knew, she was dead. For all he knew, her children and mate were wretchedly sobbing over her lifeless body, souls writhing in such terrible pain, hollow from that loss.

But—no. No, if she were dead... he would feel it. In his bones, in his heart. His friend was not dead.

Not dead. He refused to believe otherwise.

The sound of quiet footsteps had his chin turning, and his eyes met with Lyanna still holding a distraught Reavan, her hand patting his back gently. Chaol had always been fond of children—minus the rotten ones, as Hollin had been. It took almost no thought to hold out his arms, schooling his features into an inviting, calm expression.

His daughter obliged, peeling the child off her and setting him in Chaol's lap. Reavan's nature was sweet, like that of his younger sister—who clung to Castoran like a lifeline—and his small arms immediately wound around Chaol's neck, fresh tears flowing.

"I'm afraid," the boy admitted. "I—I don't want my Mama to go."

Chaol's heart strained. But he managed to say, "It'll be alright. Your Mama is strong. She'll make it."

Of course, he couldn't be sure of that. Would Reavan resent him if the words turned out to be lies? The thought sent a pang of guilt through him. He should not promise such things.

But what else could he do?

"Do you want to know something about her?" he found himself asking. Reavan nodded, fine silver hair brushing Chaol's jaw.

"She used to be covered in scars."

"Scars? Like she has in the painting?"

Confusion set in his mind. He looked to Lyanna, but she shrugged, equally bemused. "What painting, Reav?" Chaol said.

"The one in my little brother's room. With her and Papa, holding each other. She had many cuts around her neck." Reavan's voice trembled, soft and high-pitched.

Chaol hadn't seen the new prince's chambers, and so had not beheld the illustration Reavan spoke of. But he did remember the necklace of scars, the ones Aelin had received from that witch Baba Yellowlegs.

"She had those once, yes. And many more. All over her. They were like a reminder to her, where she had been, how she had fought."

"But why aren't they there? Don't scars last forever?"

_They should, if an evil Valg queen does not take them away_. "Usually. It's not my place to tell you what happened, Reav. I'll leave that to your Mama and Papa. But know she earned every scar. Know she's fought all her life. She will fight this."

Another gentle nod, and Chaol smiled. One day, all of Aelin's children would know her story. Would know of every battle and hardship she'd faced.

Just as Terence and Lyanna knew of his and Yrene's struggles.

He would never forget the flash of pride in their eyes when he'd first told them what their mother had done atop that balcony in this very palace. Downed entire armies, set this world free of the Valg monstrosities. Saved them all.

Even after nearly two decades, he was still _so_ in love with her.

He gently tapped Reavan's back. "You be brave, now. Have faith."

The prince gave one last nod and retracted his arms, hopping down from Chaol's lap, graceful and swift like the white fox he knew the boy could shift into. He thought Reavan might go back to Lyanna—but when he veered around her, headed straight for the pair watching them from one of the couches, Chaol beamed softly.

Reavan's expression, hard with new resolve, did not waver as he settled on the couch and held out his hands. Castoran chuckled under his breath, stroking Amora's hair once more before placing her in her brother's lap.

Like magnets, the siblings drew into each other. Such tenderness surrounded them, it was enough to make Chaol's heart ache. How many times had Terence scooped Lyanna up like that when they were children? When she'd scraped her knee running in the yard, or splintered her little fingers on the wooden swords intended for practice? When he'd let his hands glow to life, washing away her wounds, comforting her as an older brother should?

They were so different. And yet they rarely fought. Laughed together everyday, bantered like the best of friends.

It made him feel a sudden rush of remorse. It should have been that way with Terrin. They were on friendly terms, yes. But they had still grown up separately. He would always be sorry for that—for leaving him with the bastard that still looked over Anielle, ancient as he was. For allowing himself to forget some days that he'd even _had_ a brother.

"What are you thinking, Father?"

His daughter's voice was like the scenes she painted—flowing, colorful. "Just about your Uncle Terrin," Chaol said. "I hope he doesn't feel lonely with all of us out of the house."

"He has your mother," she countered. "And—"

She was cut off by the heavy lock sounding in the hushed chamber. Along with a haggard-looking Yrene padding in through the doorway.

_Yrene_.

Chaol whispered her name automatically, analyzing her face, her posture. Her shoulders curved inward—just slightly—and her gorgeous golden eyes were glassy, weighed down by purplish shadows. She looked so, so tired.

He launched himself into a glide towards her.

Terence followed quickly, stepping around his mother, freckles striking against his almost-ashen skin. It wasn't surprising to see him march to Lyanna, draping an arm around her as they both watched Chaol come to a skidding halt.

Yrene slumped into his lap.

"Are you alright?" he muttered as she rested her head against him. "What happened? Is Aelin..."

Not dead. Not dead—

"Awake. Exhausted, but awake."

Cooling relief washed through him, and he sighed, as if he could expel all the tension that had racked his body in the last hour.

Not dead. Awake.

Alive.

"And the babe?"

Castoran was guiding the royal siblings now, herding them towards Chaol as he held his wife. "What happened? Is everything alright?" His nephew's words were a quiet plea, tinged with fear.

Chaol smiled as gently as he could, saying, "Everything is fine."

"Aelin is waiting for us. Rowan and the others are with her now," Yrene muttered, her breath warm on his cheek.

"Let's go, then," he said, placing his hands on the wheels of his chair to propel them both toward the door—

"You all go on," his wife said to the rest of them. "We'll be there in a moment."

They stared for a bit, perplexed as to what Yrene could want at this very minute, that couldn't wait until they were tucked in bed later. But Chaol only shrugged and jerked his chin towards the exit, settling his hands on the small of Yrene's back.

The children obeyed, even Terence and Lyanna, the latter lightly gripping the inside of her brother's arm. They gave their parents a questioning glance as they passed, but motioned for the royal siblings to follow.

Only when the door shut behind them with a loud click, Yrene took Chaol's face in his hands and kissed him fiercely.

He mumbled her name against her lips as he caressed her back, dragging his fingernails over the soft material of her dress. She always wore the softest, simplest dresses. After all these years, that had not changed.

So little had changed about her, in fact. Despite the little lines that had appeared around her eyes, despite the one thin streak of silver to contrast the gold in her hair, she was the same. Joyful, wonderful, beautiful Yrene—his wife, his love, his perfect match.

He held her close as she pulled away, leaning her forehead against his. It was slightly clammy, beaded with nervous sweat, but Chaol didn't care. He focused on her scent as he gulped down a breath, suddenly greedy for her.

"You..." she said, worming her fingers into his hair. "You have no idea how much I adore you."

On the contrary, he had a very good idea. If she felt for him as he felt for her... Yes, he understood completely.

"I should say the same. But are you alright?"

She'd not answered him when he first asked. She hesitated for a moment, pressing light kisses along his temple, his cheek, his jaw.

Finally, she said, "Aelin almost died."

His stomach sank. "Yes. I know. Not knowing whether or not she'd survive was torture."

His wife nodded, a soft snort escaping her. "But deep inside, you knew she'd overcome this."

"Yes," he answered simply.

She waited a few minutes before speaking again, content to keep stroking his hair and kissing his face, as if marking him with her full lips. But then she pulled back, staring into his eyes, right into his soul. "I couldn't help but think of what happened at the Torre in Antica. When Hafiza went missing."

He instantly knew of what she spoke. He would never forget that day. When he'd come so close to oblivion, broken and beaten to a pulp by a murderous Princess Duva. A shudder went through him at the thought of it.

"And," Yrene went on, "I remembered how it felt to almost lose you. The terror and the pain... it was the worst moment of my life."

He nodded, the memory flashing in his mind. Trying so desperately to help Yrene, to get her safe. Nearly weeping as all their hard work became undone, his legs laying dead behind him as he crawled.

"And looking at Rowan... I knew a part of him did not accept it. Did not accept that she was gone. But another part did. When he looked at his children... he seemed so heart-broken. As if preparing himself to raise them alone."

Yes, Chaol could imagine. There was rarely any love greater than that between the Queen of Terrasen and her mate; he'd heard the story of Aelin's possession at Skull's Bay, seen how they gazed at each other during her coronation. He liked to believe he loved Yrene that much—he loved her so _damn_ much, it made his chest tighten—and that Fae were not the only ones capable of that love.

"As I stared at him... I could just see you there, on the ground in that hidden trove. And... I just wanted to touch you and kiss you and make sure the nightmare is over. Remind myself we're still here."

He smiled softly. "We're still here, Yrene," he assured, planting his lips on her collarbone. "Against the odds." His smile grew wider. "Against otherworldly forces, we're still here."

Yrene blew out a breath, golden eyes shimmering in the light from the braziers. "Let's go greet our newest nephew."

Chaol chuckled, quiet and low. "Does he have a name yet?"

Her expression was full of tenderness, lips curled into a tiny beam, irises gleaming. "I'll let Aelin tell you herself. It's special. Fitting, really. Something is different about this one. I think he has a strange power—one the others don't have."

Ah. Another child with great power, with dazzling talent. Just more chaos to mix in with the rest of the Galathynius family.

Chaol grinned. "Let's see him, then."

He didn't allow her to rise. Instead, he pressed her body to his chest, a silent request to let him hold her. Tired as she was, she obliged, nestling against him.

But before they left the room, wheeled into the winding halls where they might be listened to, he leaned in close to her ear.

"You have no idea how much I adore _you_."

A small graze of his teeth against her earlobe had her squirming. But now was not the time, they both knew. So he let her read the silent promise in his eyes, let her deduce his meaning.

_Tomorrow night_. Because they both needed rest. But tomorrow night, they would not.

She flushed a lovely pink, and he allowed himself one last kiss against her neck before he opened the massive door and rolled them out, eager to meet the new prince.

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~ hi, shorter chapter this week, but let me tell you, school and church have got me _**busy**_. i wanted to write more scenes in this chapter, like everyone meeting Rhoe (also, let me know what you think of the name!) and Chaol and Aelin having a special (and completely platonic) moment. i suppose it'll just have to wait until next week.

~ thank you guys so much for all your lovely comments. this might seem dramatic, but they mean the world to me. i've always been very private about my writing—truthfully, this is the first time i've ever published anything—and it's good to get feedback.

~ again, i've been busy, so sorry if this chapter seems a little hastily written (it was lmao). nonetheless, i hope you enjoyed. love y'all. really. :)

xo


	8. Birth and Death

Rhoe says hello to his family.

disclaimer: sarah j. maas owns all (minus the new generation).

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Perfect. He was perfect.

His hair matched hers just as Rowan had wished, and his eyes...

Warm like a glowing hearth, the color of honey on a loaf of freshly baked bread. His tiny fingers wrapped around her thumb, and Aelin's very core was soothed, as if she'd just taken a cool bath in a forest pool.

She had not forgotten that little whisper she'd heard in her head. But as he'd not done anything similar again, Aelin was beginning to think perhaps, in the smog that had surrounded her during the birth, she might have imagined it.

A part of her was unhappy to think so—had it truly not been real?—but she quickly put it from her mind, smiling faintly as Ava slung an arm around her middle, Rendyll doing the same soon after.

"I love you, Mama," Ava whispered, golden tresses fanned out behind her.

"I love you, Mama," Rendyll echoed, tightening his grip.

She had to grin at _Mama_. It had been years since she'd heard it from either of their lips. Reavan still addressed her so, as did Amora, but _they_ were just beyond infancy. These two at her side had long since outgrown the word—and yet here they lay, calling her as they had at age three and thinking nothing of it.

"My sweet things. I love you, too." She laughed quietly, bouncing Rhoe as she did.

Rhoe.

There was no other name for him. As soon as she'd risen to the surface from that endless pit, she'd known exactly whose soul her babe would mirror.

That of a protector, of a sweet comfort. The names she and Rowan had considered before would never have fit, never have complimented him so wonderfully. He was still a mere newborn, not yet having developed any semblance of personality. And yet... she knew. She couldn't explain it. She just knew.

Rowan seemed to know, too. He'd agreed on the name in an instant. And even stranger, he'd never even met Aelin's father. But together, in complete harmony, they were certain.

When they'd had Rendyll, she had considered it. In the end, though, he had symbolized another piece of her; the part of her that was a song, a humming melody. Ava was the headstrong part, burning within from subdued fire; Reavan was the hopeful part, that of forgiveness and restoration. And Amora embodied pure love—pure sweetness like a fresh slice of fruit on a summer's evening.

Rhoe seemed simply an oak in a storm, an unmoving solace, regardless of the world's torments and tribulations.

Aelin smiled at her own little creations, reminding herself that the empty spots beside her legs would be filled soon enough.

"Five children," she mouthed.

More than she'd ever hoped. She always thought she would be lucky to have one, maybe two if they were really, thoroughly blessed.

"He's our last," Rowan muttered, running tattooed knuckles over the child's ruddy cheek. Already, he was enamored. She could see it in his eyes, see the silver lining them.

"How do you know?"

"I had a dream once. When you were Maeve's prisoner, and I was scourging the lands searching for you."

At her sides, she felt her two eldest wince. The movement had her slinging Rhoe to one arm, petting the limbs splayed across her abdomen with her free hand.

"It was you and me, with a great chasm between us. At first, you were facing away, watching something in the distance. But when you turned... you were pregnant. And then our other children appeared, exactly as they look right now. I still don't know what to make of it, how my mind had formed such a specific, _accurate_ vision."

They all lay frozen, staring at him.

"So... we were always meant to have them," Rowan said with a soft beam. "I think... after all you've been through—all _we've_ been through—I'd argue it's fate saying you deserve all every happiness. Every single one."

"Perhaps." she considered, awed. She shook her head, as if doing so would somehow reveal all the answers. "I still wonder how. Fae aren't supposed to have an easy time conceiving."

Almost every night, she asked herself the same question. _How?_ How was it possible that she'd defied the odds so thoroughly?

"I don't know, Fireheart. Even so... he's our last," Rowan repeated.

"Will... will I have trouble?" Ava's words was a quiet mumble, both afraid of the answer and eager to hear it. Aelin stroked her daughter's small hand, already callused from efficient practice with her wooden sword. Soon—perhaps when she reached thirteen—they would gift her a real one.

"Only time can tell, cub," Rowan said softly, the color of his gaze matching hers perfectly. "Don't worry about it now."

The princess's head brushed Aelin's side in what she assumed was a nod, and they remained quiet, content to have this small moment of peace, of quiet.

Until the door to their suite clicked open, and the last missing pieces of their family shuffled in.

Reavan's face, to her surprise, was filled with determination. Determined to do what, Aelin could only guess. But her heart nearly cracked in two as she saw how he clumsily but lovingly held his younger sister, sniffing the air as if to test the amount of death that lingered in it.

But his face lit as bright as the sun when he noticed her, tired but awake, sitting slumped against the headboard, his siblings pressed against her.

"Mama!"

His voice was like a break in the clouds of a thunderstorm.

"Reav." Aelin laughed, beckoning with her free arm. "Amora," she called, beaming. Her youngest daughter's expression was that of a lovely rose, blooming with joy as the pair of them scrambled up onto the bed, paying no attention to the dirt smears their boots left behind.

They crawled up as high as they could with Ava and Rendyll in the way, and threw their tiny arms around her neck, her chest.

Fresh tears sprang into her eyes.

"My sweets," she choked, trying to speak past the lump in her throat. "This is your little brother. Rhoe."

"Rhoe?"

Lyanna's silky call sounded through the room, snatching Aelin's attention for a moment. She strode arm in arm with her brother—Castoran padding along beside them—clad in soft leathers, her hands stained with red and black paint. Aelin had to smile.

The silent ire in Lyanna's gaze was partially relieved, a steady caution in its place. Yes; caution, because she would never allow her heart to be toyed with that way again. A pang of guilt wormed up Aelin's spine. She had not looked closer, had not thought to investigate Felix Ardere and his intentions...

Later. She would apologize later.

But Lyanna's gold-bronze eyes held no accusation, no blame. Only grateful relief as she, her brother, and cousin inched forward, and as she took up a perch at the foot of the bed.

"Rhoe... it's beautiful," Lyanna mused, the corner of her lips—one of the few physical features she'd inherited from her father, aside from his coloring—turning upward.

"I told you it was," Terence said, nudging her and eyeing the official certificate he'd left lying on the mahogany desk. "Hard to wait for his Hailing."

Ah. His grand debut as a prince, where he would be introduced formally and officially into the court, as her other children had been. A bit of an unnecessary thing, Aelin had always thought. But it gave her an excuse to see all her friends—and to drag Rowan into a rare dance—so she couldn't complain.

"Well, it's three months away. Better get used to waiting." Castoran flashed his pearly teeth, winking at Ava as she peeked at him from behind the arm slung over Aelin's stomach.

He held a cool demeanor, but Aelin could see that he'd been shaken, evident in the small indigo veins shot through his icy eyes. He had been worried for her. Warmth seeped into her heart.

"Your mother and father had better make it," she warned impishly, smirking.

He answered with a playful smile of his own. "I'll personally see to it that they do."

Even without his assurance, Aelin knew that they wouldn't miss it for the world. They hadn't the past four times, and since this was apparently her final child, there was no way they could be absent. She would hunt them to the ends of the world if they were.

Three months. Then Rhoe could meet his _extended_ family—those who poured their very souls into saving this world.

The thought made her grin.

"Where is Fenrys? Strange that we haven't seen him at all. Shouldn't he be here?" Lyanna asked, dark brows raised.

"He's away on diplomacy. Strengthening our connections with territories in the east, that sort of thing," Rowan told her, running thick fingers through Aelin's hair and twirling the down at the nape of her neck. The gesture sent a tingling trickle down her spine, a calming sensation.

"Does that mean... never mind. It's not important," the young lady said, cheeks flushing.

"What is it, Lyanna?" Rowan asked gently.

She hesitated, but sighed, "Well... does it mean there is another who fulfills Fenrys' duties?" Her forehead was creased, as if doing her best to remember some fuzzy bit of information. Aelin nodded, frowning as her best guard's face flashed in her mind, the one who the official Captain of the Guard position was reserved for. Although, after he'd vouched for the boy who broke her niece's heart, she was beginning to think that perhaps she should reconsider.

"Is... his name Eren Ardere?"

Aelin's stomach tightened. "That's him."

"Oh," was all Lyanna said in response, dropping her gaze to her lap.

Sorrow burned a hole into Aelin's insides as she asked, "Why?"

"I... ecountered him. But it's not important," Lyanna repeated. "There are more immediate concerns." She motioned to a whimpering Rhoe, small grimace evident on his tiny face. She echoed the sentiment.

Rowan took heed of Aelin's expression, shaking his head.

_Not your fault, Fireheart_.

She mashed her lips together. _Not even a little?_

_No. No one to blame but that boy._

She didn't agree, but didn't press the issue either, instead focusing on the babe, tightly swaddled in a soft yellow blanket. It was quiet for a few moments, the only sound in the room their breaths and the rustle of sheets as her children shifted around her.

Breaking the silence, Castoran said, "His birthday is quite close to yours, Aelin."

"Indeed it is," she mumbled. "No time for celebrating this year, though. In my experience, these little things tend to command nearly all of my attention." She lightly pinched Rhoe's nose, earning an indignant squeak.

"Still, you should receive presents, Ma—Mother," Ava piped, flushing as her eyes flicked to her friend. "Yrene was telling us how extravagant a gift-giver you are."

"Yes. But what about you? What would you like to have this year?" Rendyll asked.

Aelin had to laugh, briefly forgetting her Lyanna-Ardere woes. "I think I'll probably just want a good night's sleep. Perhaps I'll make _you_ deal with all the midnight cries?" She raised her eyebrows at Rowan, who chuckled warmly.

"Anything you want," he said. And leaned in to brush his lips against hers.

"Och." Ava scowled and looked away, her other children doing the same. With a mischievous grin, her mate took her face in his hands and kissed her intensely, only pulling away when Reavan grumbled, "Papa, stop it."

Rowan mock-frowned. "Am I not allowed to kiss your mother?"

"Not in front of us," Rendyll protested. He opened his mouth to say more, but was interrupted by a sharp rap against the still-open suite door.

"Pardon us. Is this right room? We're looking for a new prince, about this big?" Chaol wheeled his chair in, holding his hands a foot apart after he glided to a stop in front of the threshold, Yrene slumped in his lap.

The beams that broke out on both their faces made her heart strain. "Sorry," Aelin smirked, lifting Rhoe up to her face. "Closed event."

Chaol laughed, propelling his chair forward. His children and Castoran scooted aside, making room for the Hand and his wife. They peered at the bundle in Aelin's arms, their expressions soft. And full of wonder. Every birth was awe-inspiring for Yrene, Aelin knew. And Chaol... he just happened to adore children.

"His name?" he said, smiling expectantly.

"Rhoe," she replied. "Rhoe Whitethorn Galathynius. Think it fits?" She tilted the babe up in emphasis, grazing her fingers against his pink cheek.

"Yes," Chaol whispered. "It fits. He's... different, isn't he?"

"I think so. Aren't you, my love?" she cooed, pressing a light peck into the golden down on his head.

"Different how?" Ava asked.

"Well," Aelin began, "I don't think his magic will be like any of yours." She recalled that faint breath that had echoed in her mind, light and high. There was the chance it wasn't real. Still, she tucked it away, burrowing it deep into her heart. "I'm unsure what that entails."

"I think it's correlated to the... difficulty you had this time around," Yrene said, pursing her lips. "There's something in him that had demanded balance, I think..." She trailed off, eyes glassy and distant. Even if there weren't deep shadows beneath them, it was obvious how weary she was; her shoulders curved inward, and her head seemed too heavy to hold up, swaying as she spoke.

"Demanded balance? What does that mean?" Lyanna chimed.

But Aelin said, "We can talk more about it later," She gave Yrene a small dip of her chin, which the lady returned, golden irises blinking as her lashes fluttered. "It's been a long, long day." She turned to her children. "Go on, you four. To your chambers."

"Can we sleep with you?" Rendyll asked nervously, pulling on her sleeve. Aelin raised her brows, glancing at Rowan. He merely shrugged. _Up to you_.

Their bed was massive, so there was certainly enough room. She took a moment to study their faces—all hopeful... and yet fear lined the set of their lips, the minuscule furrows on their foreheads. Fear... because they had almost lost her. And nothing would be more comforting than laying beside her.

"I suppose it's alright. But don't complain when Rhoe wakes you with his crying."

"We won't complain," Ava said, mouth curling.

"No, Mama, we won't complain." Reavan chirped.

She could see the others smiling to themselves as they padded out, sparing a few more glimpses at Rhoe. She might have had them stay longer, of course. But Yrene was exhausted. They were _all _exhausted. When they were better rested, they could resume their pondering.

"Goodnight," they each called before crossing the threshold, Terence and Lyanna striding along side by side, Castoran following closely behind Chaol and Yrene.

"Goodnight," her family answered before the door clicked shut. Silence settled for a few seconds, each of them staring after those who'd just departed. And then Rowan rapped out an order to the children, motioning to the bathing room.

"Time to wash up. Clean your teeth and your hands. There's extra brushes in the drawer by the basin. All of you, go on. "

They obeyed without a word, happy to do it if it meant they could all stay together for the night. Hopping off the bed one by one, they hurried to the washroom, Amora struggling to keep up on her smaller legs.

"You'll have to give them your shirts to sleep in," Aelin muttered, brows quirked at her mate. He only leaned forward abruptly, planting a firm kiss on her mouth.

"Once you're ready," he whispered after pulling away slightly. "I'm going to take you on this bed and never let you go. Never."

She laughed, kissing along the seam of his lips. "Not even for Rhoe's Hailing?"

He pretended to consider for a second, resting his head against hers. "Well," he rumbled, seemingly reluctant. "I suppose there will be exceptions. We should decide on them now, just to avoid confusion."

"You know what?" She grinned as their babe squawked, as if in protest to his idea. "Tell me tomorrow."

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He wasn't as bone-tired as his wife. Indeed—Yrene's breaths were heavy and deep, eyelids fluttering as she dreamt.

No, he was not as tired as his wife. But still, his strength was sapped. And still, he could not sleep.

Chaol stared at the celieng over their ornate bed, not bothering to look at the clock on the nightstand beside his head. He knew it was two hours until dawn. But once he'd abruptly woken several minutes ago, stirred from slumber by some unknown force, he could not sink back into his doze, regardless of how comfortable he lay or how warm the room was.

Yrene's magic was mostly restored; his legs were responsive enough as he kicked aside the sheets, sitting up over the lip of the bed. In Adarlan, whenever he couldn't sleep, he always rose for the sake of using the time to be productive. But here in Terrasen, he bore no responsibilities. Yet it pained him to be idle, and he grumbled to himself as he padded to the sturdy dresser across the room and shoved his feet into pants and a pair of worn boots.

Might as well go for a run.

Perhaps when he was done, he'd be tired enough to drowse.

Yrene stirred, her beautiful form shifting onto its side, making her hip curve ravishingly into the air and accentuating her already-prominent curves. Chaol couldn't help but walk over and run a hand down her waist, relishing in the soft satin of her nightgown. She was worn enough that she didn't wake, only nestled her head further into her pillow, sighing softly.

He laid a kiss against her freckled nose. "I'll be back soon," he said, and ambled out the room.

The halls of Orynth's castle were glittering even in darkness. The polished floors held a reflective sheen, and the walls were sparkling with the inlaid flakes of gold against the white stone. Along some of the corridors stretched lush green carpets, soft like spring grass underfoot. They were almost springy, perfect for running, to cushion the blow against the bones of the leg with each footfall. With five rambunctious children, he supposed such an investment was necessary.

There would always be activity in the castle. Now, as Chaol streamed through its halls, it was relatively a low amount; he only saw one servant on his way to the stairs, sweeping immaculate tile and collecting the non-existent dust into a metal pan.

There was that servant, and one other person.

As he descended a set of stairs and rounded a corner, a faint glint of gold caught his eye. He had to do a double take, and the bleak light of a single candle revealed Aelin, absent-mindedly rocking the new prince, staring out from a small balcony overlooking a small portion of Orynth.

Strange that she was by herself. And stranger, she should have been nearly as tired as Yrene, passed out in her luxurious suite, her children snuggled against her and her mate. Yet here she was, long tresses swaying in the light breeze, face turned toward the sky, turqoise eyes wide open.

Perhaps she wanted to stay alone. The balcony wasn't exactly private or hidden, but maybe she'd figured no one would disturb her if they saw her.

Even so, he was curious. What was she _doing_?

There was a dull ache in his spine, but he ignored it has he started forward. Soon, Yrene's magic would replenish completely, and any discomfort would disappear.

He kept his footsteps light, though he knew her Fae ears could pick up the sound easily. She didn't move as he approached, instead opting to peer down at Rhoe, bouncing him as his mouth curled into a small O.

His head was fuzzy with yellow wisps of hair that looked as if they would curl as they grew. And already he could see Aelin's slender nose present, along with Rowan's lips and the shape of his eyes. Even as a newborn, wrinkly and blind as they were, this new prince was beautiful.

Chaol told her as much. "He's beautiful."

Aelin lifted her head, tearing her gaze from her son and glancing at him. "Of course he is," she said with a smirk. "He's mine."

He had to laugh. So she _didn't_ wish to be alone. "Arrogant as ever. Are those the core values you're teaching your children?"

She chuckled, but did not answer. Instead, she asked, "Going for a run this early?"

"Yes. I'd invite you," he said, flashing his teeth in a grimace. "But it seems you've lost your touch." That wasn't true of course. Despite yesterday's events, she looked stronger than ever, tall and graceful and brimming with youth. Sometimes, if he really looked at her, it still shocked him to think she still appeared nineteen, eyes free of lines and mouth full. At first glance, a stranger would think Terence old enough to court her.

"I'd kick your ass and you know it," she bit back, tossing her hair over a shoulder. "But perhaps another day, for old times' sake." Her grin was white as snow, even in the flickering candlelight.

"I'll take that challenge." He knew he would lose; hard as he trained, he was no match for the sheer speed of the Fae. But he continued, "Prepare to eat your words."

"Bullshit," she dismissed him, shaking her head. "Lyanna should come, too. I want to see how well you've trained her. And also to display my superiority." The words seem to spill forth without much thought, and he was about to retort. But then Aelin's expression was suddenly serious. And after a moment's confusion, as she scowled toward a quiet square that hadn't yet filled with vendors and passersby, he knew what she wanted to say.

"Chaol... I'm sorry. I should have looked into that boy more. Should have payed closer attention."

"Your mind was elsewhere," he said immediately. "You were _pregnant_, Aelin. You have a kingdom to run, and children to raise."

"Still, for _her_, I should have investigated."

"She doesn't blame you. And even if she did, I'd scold her for being absurd. Let it go. It's not your fault."

The queen's scowl deepened, but she begrudgingly agreed.

"And we all suffer heartbreak at one point," he said, pursing his lips. "Lyanna's a lovely girl. It was only a matter of time until some idiot decided to toy with her. But she's learned from it."

"Good. And I'll flambé anybody else who tries to do it again. Won't I, my love?" she cooed to Rhoe as he whimpered in her arms.

Chaol chuckled, saying, "There will be no need. Lyanna's wrath will be punishment enough." He said the words as a joke, but he didn't doubt the truth in them.

Rhoe began whimpering louder now, and Aelin rocked him gently, uttering sweet praises against his cheek.

"He's not hungry?" Chaol asked, preparing to give them some privacy.

But she said, "No, he's not. Just tired."

The babe quieted eventually, his near-cries dying down to soft whines. He was big for a newborn; he filled Aelin's embrace thoroughly, his body flush against the fabric of the yellow blanket.

It had been a while since he held a child so young.

Chaol opened his arms, brows raised in question. "May I?"

Aelin didn't hesitate, nodding as she placed her son in Chaol's hold and stroking his soft chin. Chaol couldn't help but beam; such purity and innocence would never fail to make him smile. He gazed at the newest prince, bouncing his arms as he'd seen her do, as he had done with his own children, along with the rest of hers.

A thought distracted him. His children. Her children. Seperate from each other, as they'd been meant to be. For Yrene was Chaol's match; Rowan was Aelin's.

Yet...

"Strange to think, isn't it?" he said. "That there'd been a time..."

"A time?" Curiosity was apparent on her face. Though he had the suspicion she knew where he was going with this.

"A time when I'd thought he would be mine." Voicing the thought tasted odd on his tongue. Not unpleasant. But off. Foreign. Out of place, like a tree in the middle of the ocean, or a white hair on Farasha's silky black coat. Not intended to be. "All of them: Ava and Rendyll, Reavan and Amora. Mine." So, so _odd_.

She seemed to have the same aversion. Until she said, "Yes. Strange. But it also makes sense."

He'd not expected to hear _that_.

"Makes sense how?" He blinked as he struggled to conceive a world where he and Yrene did not belong together. Where he chose to spend his life with Aelin instead, as he'd once planned. It sent a jolt of unease through him.

"I like to think that Celaena Sardothien and the Adarlanian Captain of the Royal Guard were meant to be. And perhaps then, my children would have been yours as well."

She paused, deliberating. "But those people were cowards. And even so, they never existed, in some peculiar way. Not really. Deep inside, I was always Aelin. And deep inside, you were always the noble Hand," she finished simply.

"Ah," he whispered. "So the cowards deserved each other." He smiled grimly.

Aelin returned it, just as ruefully. "But cowards no more. We're where we should be. With _who_ we should be."

"Cowards no more," he agreed.

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_There was darkness, and yet there was light._

_Darkness, because such was death. Was it not like becoming ashes, drifting away on a high wind? It was dark, yes. And it was painful at times, yes. But other times... it was peaceful._

_She looked at her daughter, asleep in a kingdom that had also once fallen to Adarlan's greed. A kingdom now restored, along with that of Fenharrow. Terrasen, like her home and refuge, both now thriving against the bleakest odds._

_The world was now beautiful; magic flowed freer than a stream, bloodshed was banished, evil was crushed beneath the feet of the mighty, of the meek, of the brave and the good-hearted and the resilient and the loyal. No more corrupted kings, no more venomous queens. Fine rulers, just rulers, presiding upon fine peoples, just peoples._

_A world fit for Yrene Towers._

_Josefin's daughter was now married. To a son of the kinder Adarlan, to a protector and a warrior. And Josefin's daughter was now a mother. To two children born of light and strength, one a mender of broken bones, one a wielder of steel and iron._

_The son's name was Terence. He liked poetry and novels. He liked accompanying his mother to their tower. He liked helping others._

_The daughter's name was Lyanna. She liked swords and knives. She liked painting and sculpting. She liked defending others._

_There was no better honor in death. To see those one had left behind bloom into greatness, to see them triumph against the odds, survive in spite of the chances. _

_Josefin harbored such a pride. And as her soul closed its eyes, she could not wait until she saw her daughter again._

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_There was darkness, and yet there was light. _

_Darkness, because such was death. Was it not like bursting into black power, consumed by the Yielding and destroyed completely, soul and all?_

_No. She had burst into light. And light did not consume souls. _

_So there was the darkness of this world, yes. And there was her light. Death could be painful. And death could be peaceful._

_She looked at her cousin, asleep in her bed. _Home. _Where she'd led their kind. Where she now lived. And not just existed. _Lived.

_Asterin wound her fingers through the hunter's, standing shoulder to shoulder with him. He looked as he had in his youth, when they'd met, when they'd loved. And as he reached across her abdomen, the brand reading UNCLEAN long since burned away, another hand found hers._

_A smaller one. A witchling's, appearing to be just past her nineteenth birthday._

_Even in death, she lived. _

_As Manon lived. As she awoke every few hours and toyed with the sapphires pierced through her ears, as she gazed upon that hanging painting that held _him. _The impossible half-blood, the one whose hair matched hers._

_Manon missed them. Dorian and the half-witch. Castoran, she'd named him._

_Safe in the embrace of the Queen of Terrasen, he drowsed deep within a mound of blankets. Asterin remembered the day when the other eleven had gathered around and watched Manon read the message from the healer Yrene Towers. As she'd stared and stared at the wall for hours, only moving when Dorian had read the thin note himself and lifted her into his arms._

_Manon has found her own hunter. She'd had her own witchling._

Live, Manon. _A kiss on her brow. _Live.

_The Witch-Queen lived. In Terrasen, a part of her lived. In Adarlan, another part lived. And here in the Afterworld, twelve parts lived._

_They waited._

_In harmony, in their own peace, they waited._

_For the day the Darkness claimed Manon Blackbeak, High Queen of the Crochans and the Ironteeth. For when they were restored to each other, made the whole Thirteen once more._

_It would be a long wait. Even so, with a glance to her hunter and her witchling, Asterin Blackbeak smiled._

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_There was darkness, and yet there was light._

_Darkness, because such was death. Was it not like being cut into two pieces, forgotten by the world save for a king blessed with raw magic? It was dark, of course. It was painful, yes. But sometimes, there was light. Sometimes there was tranquility._

_Tranquility, because the king that she'd loved had reformed his kingdom, had made it into a place worth living in. He'd found a queen, and every so often, that made her heart strain with sorrow._

_But she saw how Dorian looked upon his son. The sheer love and devotion in his sapphire eyes had no rival. And it was then that Sorscha could not find it within herself to scorn the Witch-Queen. She could not dredge up an ounce of hate for the person who had birthed the object of Dorian's utter happiness._

_She was alright being alone, if it meant he never knew a day of sadness. And anyway, she was not _truly _by herself... _

_Her parents stood at her sides, each pressing a hand against her shoulders. She'd joined them again. They were a family again._

_A family like those three she'd treated, lifetimes ago. In the assassin's bedroom. An assassin, who now sat on the throne of Terrasen._

_A shame she never met Celeana Sardothien as a queen. What a thought. To know she had once healed one of the most powerful rulers in all history. To know they had spoken. To know the queen knew Sorscha's name._

_And the captain... he was the Hand now. Married, to another woman from Fenharrow. Father to two beautiful children. Now part of the queen's family as one of her closest friends._

_Those three had made her life difficult. And they had made it meaningful._

_So she would wait until she could say hello to them. Until then... she was not alone._

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_There was darkness, and yet there was light._

_Darkness, because such was death. Was it not like a sacrifice, choosing a cub over himself so that he might one day know of the joy that is having a son? It was dark here. There was pain. But even so, light always bloomed. From his heart, from the heart of the woman standing beside him, light blossomed. Because she was a bright star in centuries of darkness. Even now, to the ends of this world, he would follow her._

_They smiled whenever they saw their son. Smiled because he was a cub no more; the Wolf of the North, the protector of Terrasen. A wolf with his mate, that beauty with great power. Lysandra. Who'd borne Aedion two pups._

_Gwen was the girl's name. She was like a ray of sunshine, brightening the harshest of days. Gaveon was the boy's name. He was like a glittering river, cleansing and wholesome. _

_He knew from where the inspiration for the boy's name had come. And he could not be more honored. _

_And _Aelin. _She had done it. She had made a better world. And she had built him a monument, just outside the Western gates. Every year she and Rowan visited it. And every year, she said the same thing._

Forever, we miss you, Gavriel. _And then she always threw in_, I'll see you again one day, Uncle Kitty Cat. I, as your blood-sworn ruler, command you to be waiting for me when I enter the Afterworld.

_For he _was _blood-sworn to her. He'd sworn after death, but her power ran through his soul regardless. She was part of him. As his queen, and as his family._

_Earlier, he had been waiting. He'd thought she'd met her end. He should have know she was stronger than that._

_Aelin and Rowan had children now. Five. Blessed beyond compare, granted more than any Fae he'd ever known. He did not know them. And still he loved them._

_Because Rowan was his brother. He had given his all to have this life, with his sons and his daughters. They accompanied their mother and father to Gavriel's monument. They bowed their heads. They gave him thanks. They knew him. He did not know them. Still, they loved each other._

_One day he would see them. One day he would know them. One day... his family, whole. _

_One day._

_He kissed the woman at his side._

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_There was darkness, and yet there was light._

_Darkness, because such was death. Was it not like an ambush, a sudden attack, a bloody slaughter... _

_She had been angry. At the queen who'd tricked them both, at her nefarious plan to break the male she'd once loved._

_But his real mate had destroyed that queen. So completely that this world bore no sign of her, not even a whisper..._

_She was not angry with that queen, the one who well and truly belonged to him. She made his heart sing, made him beam with joy. She'd given him five children. And she had poured her heart of wildfire into making the world a better place for them._

_Lyria's son liked to watch them. His siblings. He wanted to know the eldest the most. The girl with golden hair and eyes akin to his. The princess who loved to spar and swim. _

_He looked to be grown now. He towered over Lyria, his chin often finding a resting place on her head._

_Sometimes she batted him away, laughing. But now his warmth rooted her, comforted her._

_She knew Rowan had not forgotten. And she loved him for it, though not in the way she once did._

_This new love was that of friends. Of a shared joy they might have had, if there son had been allowed a chance at life. For Lyria wanted only for him to know his father, for his new family to know them._

_His queen, the woman who had saved him from the wretched darkness, always honored her. She asked the Whitethorn royals to place a basket of flowers in the old mountain home every year. And underneath the blossoms, there was always a handwritten note._

You will never be forgotten. I do not know you. And yet I feel as if we are good friends. May we meet someday.

_That had been the first. It had not been the last._

_The notes would stop eventually. In the distant future, when it came to the fading. She would see Rowan again. Would become friends with the queen who held his heart. _

_Eventually. They would all be together. Not yet. Not soon. _

_Eventually._

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_There was darkness, and yet there was light._

_Darkness, because such was death. Was it not monstrous? A terrifying murder, bloody and painful?_

_Those were the darkest parts. Those were the _awful _parts. She'd been expecting them, but had not expected... this._

_A soft glow in the middle of black, a peek into the world in which she'd once walked. It showed a young woman. Beautiful, with fiery magic roiling in her veins. A woman Nehemia loved. One the man beside Nehemia loved as well._

_They looked at her together. As she struggled and fought, they had watched her. Wept for her. The girl named Celaena Sardothien, the queen named Aelin Galathynius. They were both two parts of her past, and they could not be more proud._

_Aelin had done it. Had created that better world, had made it so that magic danced in the wind, so that evil no longer dwelled in the deepest depths, waiting to strike, to find power. _

_She had not allowed Nehemia's sacrifice to be in vain. And the promise she'd made on her grave all those years ago? Aelin kept it. Liberated Eyllwe from the taloned grasp of a despicable king, saved her family from his wrath. _

_Her family, safe. Her mother, father, her two brothers. Protected by a woman who owed them nothing..._

_Nehemia's beautiful friend. She had suffered such pain, such devastation. And yet she had risen like the sun, bright and lovely. _

_She had found a boundless love. Married. Borne children. She was a _queen_. _

_Nehemia pictured her entering this world. She came so very near today, and many waited for her at the gates. Her enemies. Her friends. _

_They were waiting for her. Sam was waiting for her._

_But Aelin had come far. She was to go farther yet._

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~ hola. not very proud of this chapter; i feel like it's ultra mediocre. sorry :/ i've just entered that finals phase in school. and, man, my future looks BLEAK.

~ either way, let me know what you think! (it's ok to tell me this chapter sucks, i just like feedback)

xo


	9. Itch

Lyanna conceives an idea. | Castoran decides to visit the Thirteen.

disclaimer: sarah j. maas owns all (minus the new generation).

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As her mother had remarked before, there were few things more beautiful than Terrasen in the spring. The flowers bloomed in full, marking rebirth and rejuvenation, painting the landscape in artful hues and wondrous colors. It was gorgeous; like sparkling jewels encrusted the earth, shining like glittering beacons of beauty and light.

Lyanna would have stayed on her balcony. Could have kept her view of Orynth and the Florine, could have drawn inspiration from there. Except, she wanted _more_.

Before she thought twice about it, her feet guided themselves out of her chambers and through the halls, her eyes absentmindedly searching for a broader scene, something different from what she usually saw.

She knew what she needed. Something fresh, something she almost never got to taste. Some new element to course through her veins, to grip her body with its soft tendrils.

A new emotion.

Emotion was at the very core of her work. When she was content, she noticed herself painting or drawing in more whimsical patterns, that like shading the edge of a face so it looked soft rather than severe, or using dreamier colors, such as the verdant of a wind-swayed field—her favorite color.

She supposed she was content now. Gone was that fiery rage, shoved into submission by her sheer will, buried deep beneath her gratitude to whatever force controlled the world—now that the gods were dead, she wondered if there was anything left at all—for having taught her a lesson. And long, long gone was that sadness, that bitter wrench against her heart that had made her want to bawl her eyes out.

More than anything, Lyanna was _over_ Felix Ardere.

Several days had passed since that terrible, yet wonderful night of Rhoe's birth. The young prince was perfectly healthy—which was no surprise. Nonetheless, it had been delightful to hear such news, even if it meant her family would be going home to Adarlan soon.

Lyanna wasn't sure if she felt relieved or reluctant to go. She missed home, of course; what she'd been looking forward to here in Orynth proved to be a massive disappointment, to say the least. She missed the hot air of Rifthold, even if the weather in Terrasen was much more agreeable. She missed her friends, the young nobles of her Uncle Dorian's court, daughters and sons of lords and foreign royalty.

Guilt wormed its way up her throat as she realized she hadn't thought of them at all since she arrived in Orynth.

Hadn't thought of Rielle, who was the closest thing Lyanna had to a sister. It was then that she decided to stop by Delles sometime, and get the lady a new pair of dancing shoes.

Shoes. She frowned. Serene liked shoes. She was the only daughter in a flock of sons to a rich merchant by the name of Landon Fayde. She'd appreciate some fine slippers from Orynth.

And Filly. He hated the moniker, but had long since given up on insisting he be called Firlen, his real name. He would like a souvenir as well, a token from the kingdom he planned to visit one day.

They were her dearest companions, save for her brother. And they hadn't even crossed her mind.

Scowling at herself, Lyanna padded on, searching for something rare; some vista she never witnessed, some new angle of Terrasen. To the north, there was the Staghorns, cutting into the sky like jagged teeth. Those might be interesting to illustrate. She tucked away the idea, mildly intrigued. And she continued her search.

To the south beckoned a view of Orynth. _That_ she'd seen a hundred times before. She passed the large windows with disinterest, appreciating the city, but accustomed to it.

Lyanna wanted something raw—some sensation she wasn't used to.

She was done with love. At least for the time being. She'd burned the paintings of Felix, all of them but one. It was the best one, the utter affection she'd held visible in the way she'd brushed his then-endearing mess of wavy coffee hair, his long and slender nose. Even in her simmering rage, she could not destroy it. Not out of any love for him, but rather for herself.

She hated to look at it; it served as a reminder for how daft she'd been. But could not deny that her emotions had transformed it, had made it a work of near-perfection. It wasn't boasting. Merely acknowledging her talent.

Passion was what made it art. _Feeling_.

So love was out. Anger was out. She'd channeled anger only once—the same night Rhoe was born. And from that experience, she knew she didn't wanted to do again. Even in sharp crimson and stormy black, she'd managed to make the canvas beautiful, but almost... dangerously so. Something about it made her chest spike with unease.

That kind of temper had made her say horrible things.

_Say my name again and I'll cut you from ear to ear._

She'd spat it at the Ardere guard. And though he had not shown a lick of panic, the taste of her words lingered in her mouth, sour and unwelcome; she'd never threatened anyone in her life. It felt _so_ wrong. Like a sin against her mother, a woman who worked to heal, not to hurt.

Lyanna shuddered as shame licked up her spine. Even then, Felix had a hold on her. But no more. She was indifferent now. She didn't want to forgive him, but when she peered deep within herself, she could not find that rage. No love for him—none at all—but no rage.

After she'd finished that canvas, she'd set it aside. And she let him go.

Lyanna strode forth, her back straight and shoulders pulled back, drawing pad grasped firmly in her hand.

Something new, something new, something new.

No love. No anger. What more was there?

Joy. But she wasn't feeling particularly joyful. She was untroubled, yes. But it was not enough.

There was sadness. But there was no reason to be sad.

There was fear—

She paused. _Fear_.

Potent. Paralyzing. Riveting.

It was perfect.

Without a second thought, her paces sped, and she was practically skipping towards the stairs that led to one of the palace's towers.

Heights. She despised heights. Her Uncle Dorian had once set her on a wyvern, a gorgeous beast that served as a mount for an officer in the Adarlanian aerial legion. She'd been twelve then. Castoran had joined in, selecting a slender mare and trying to strike up a race. Lyanna had refused, of course. Because while Castoran soared into the skies with ease, having taken hundreds of rides with his mother, she'd held tight to the reins like she'd never held onto anything before, and it was all she could do not to spew her guts up onto the legion headquarters' stone landing strip when they were done.

She recalled how her stomach had flown into her throat as the bull beneath her spiraled, how he'd glided _upside down_ for five terrifying seconds.

She smiled, and quickened her pace.

This would not be the same, of course. But the thought of looking down at Orynth from such a distance made her blood sing, a thrill coursing through her veins.

She reached the entrance to the stairs, two guards posted on either side. She'd always thought their deep green uniforms complemented the white walls quite nicely.

Lyanna halted just before them, giving them a winning smile and brushing her hair back.

"Gentlemen," she chirped.

They seemed hesitant, as if they weren't sure they recognized her. She made sure to bat her eyelashes, drawing attention to her bronze-gold eyes. They would know where she'd gotten them from. Her mother was famous in Terrasen, after all.

After some thought, it made sense why some members of the guard knew her face, and others didn't. Those more well-respected were posted on other floors of the castle, closer to the royal family or to the noble offices. Her own family's chambers were a story lower and facing southeast, commanding a more immediate view of the city, with less guards patrolling the halls.

It was why Ardere hadn't known her. From the way he barked orders to Rothan and Tylas, he harbored some form of authority. Which would place him far from the parts of the castle in which she and her family resided.

But these before her seemed to decide on allowing her entry with a gruff, unanimous, "My lady." A good choice on their part, she silently remarked with a smirk.

It was all of a moment before she dashed up the stairs, her heart galloping in her chest like her Asterion mare back home.

Up, up, up. Nerves seared her extremities as she climbed.

She passed several windows, small but adequate openings that were regularly placed along the curved wall. Each one made her pulse spur, and made her head spin as the chant in her head almost screamed at her.

_Not high enough_.

She might have been insane. A laugh burst from her, bubbling and unexpected.

Yes, she thought with an internal sigh. She was mad.

Of course, she wouldn't go to the top of the tower. That was far too high. But—

_This_. Yes.

She skidded to a halt, her chest heaving with sharp, shallow pants. Her breaths echoed down the stairwell, bouncing along the snowy stone walls. It was all she could do not to grin.

This thing had come over her was treacherous. Some wild thirst for adrenaline, something she'd experienced before—and always satiated with a thunderous horse ride, or a spar with the young weapon's master in Adarlan.

But this was for a different reason. Now melded with a need to _create_, to birth visual sentiment through her fingers, through their precise motions and proficient memory. It was equal parts terrifying and invigorating.

She forced a thought through her brain. _You could die. Don't be stupid. You could die_.

Lyanna almost hesitated.

Almost.

Her limbs stretched of their own accord, shoving the pad of parchment between her arm and her left rib, extending to allow her slender frame through the opening. Thank the gods' ashes she'd worn pants today; she'd almost opted for a lavender dress, which would have made this impossible.

But her feet nimbly propped her up, giving her a perfect view down below—

_Shit_.

Oh, rutting gods.

The drop loomed, interrupted only by a slab of gleaming rooftop several meters below and more than a few feet to the left, which served as a canopy shadowing some lower-leveled balcony. It made for an annoying obstacle in her perfect field of vision. Still, the joint-locking unease gripped her.

Safely tucked behind a rail or a wall, the expanse of the castle grounds from this angle didn't look so petrifying. But sitting on the sill of a narrow window, with nothing to catch her if she were to fall off, nothing to anchor her to the safe embrace of the stairwell...

Bile rose in her throat, and her chest wound up so tightly she thought she would choke. But she forced her hands to release the interior edges of the sill, to remove her medium-sized pad from her armpit. Through the pounding beat of her heart, she inhaled a sharp, cold breath, keeping her gaze locked on the steep, _steep_ drop.

Her fingers shook, though she did her best to still them. Carefully, she slipped her graphite pencil from its nestle in her pocket.

And...

_Begin_, her mind shot, as if it were some race. She supposed it was; a race against her better instincts, fighting to get her off that edge, to get her safe. She set to work before paying them any heed.

The pencil flitted from hand to hand as she drew. She liked to do that; switch between right and left, letting her illustrations display a mix of intense shading and precise lines. It had always been something her brother considered strange, her ability to write and wield a sword with both hands. She didn't mind, though.

She could see her panic sleeping into the harsh edges as the pencil glided over the paper.

Immediately below, Ava walked the grounds with her hound, Quickflit. For once, it was not Castoran who walked beside her, but another young boy, about twelve, and a middle-aged woman, escorting them both across the expanse. A tutor, Lyanna figured, from the work leather book in her hands, and the way she swatted the boy's head when he got distracted, or lightly pinched Ava's side when her attention, too, was elsewhere.

They didn't at all look threatening. But Lyanna's alarm—and something else she couldn't quite place—had her drawing Quickflit with needle-sharp fangs dripping crimson blood, and corrupting the trio's unassuming air with a dark shadow, a stain to linger in subtle warning.

The feeling was awful. And unexpectedly... intoxicating?

She stopped abruptly, struck with an idea so idiotic, so completely _demented_—

And for what? For this inconsequential illustration? Which she could recreate in the comfort of her own bedroom?

But it wouldn't be the same.

She was _mad_. She was a _lunatic_—

Lyanna shoved the pencil between a wad of pages, setting the pad aside and shedding her tight jacket. She hung it over the edge and rolled her shoulders, briefly enjoying the increased mobility.

And without giving herself another second to consider, she tucked the pad under an arm before leaping off the edge of the window.

_Oh gods oh gods oh gods_.

The wind howled past her ears, and her eyes watered from the sheer force of it, from the sensation of her stomach hurtling into her throat. Again, she tasted bile. She felt the urge to scream; she clamped her lips shut, not allowing a peep to escape.

Then her feet, sure and quick, found purchase against golden shingles, the rough soles of her boots holding her in place. Even so, her hands clawed at the surface of the canopy, splitting a few fingernails in the process. But she barely registered the pain as she gasped and her blood froze, as it sung through her veins in icy dread.

The pad almost slipped free from her arm, but she held it tight. She dared to look over her shoulder, and—

Her heart _hammered _against her ribs.

Unfettered by any obstacle, the view from _here_ was... it was...

It was _perfect_.

She wrenched herself around, arranging her body into a sitting position. Breathing hard, she wiped her bloody fingers on her tunic and removed the pad, slapping it against her lap. A brush of her now-trembling fingers had the pencil in her grasp, and she resumed her strokes with renewed vigor.

At some point, she stopped thinking. Stopped _being _Lyanna Westfall, and let the wind enfold her, let it whisk away any remnant of herself in this small moment.

That was all it was. One single moment, where she was connected to the pencil and the pencil connected with the paper and it was all part of her and she was all part of _it_.

The pain in her fingers smarted, but she paid it no attention. Not at all as she dragged and dragged the small instrument in her hand across the paper, periodically peeking over the lip of the canopy, each glance sending a new wave of toe-numbing fear over her body.

Hours might have passed. Or minutes. She wasn't sure.

Because there was just this moment. She felt how Rielle _looked_ when she danced or sang. It like was that rush whenever one of her daggers struck home on a particularly difficult target. Or like the first time she'd been kissed—a lingering brush against her lips from Filly, three years ago. It meant nothing, only done because of some stupid dare Serene had dumped on them. Still, it made her heart race, made her stomach clench.

This was so much worse.

And even more horrifying. How was she going to get _back_?

Her answer came just as she finished. Just as she carved the last line at the bottom of the page, the final L in Westfall.

"Lyanna!"

Her brother's voice had her jumping with a sudden jolt of realization. She'd known she could die, here, now. And of course she'd worried about the fall, the anxiety gnawing at her insides. But she hadn't considered her family. Hadn't stopped to wonder what it would be like for them, if she did become nothing more than a splattered stain on Aelin's flawless lawn.

Once again, shame shot up her back.

"Lyanna!" Terence's head poked through the window above her, pure fright written across his features. "Lea," he gasped. For a second, his face softened with crippling relief. Then he eyed the pad resting on her thighs, and his expression turned furious. Stormy. Lyanna frowned, waiting for the lightning.

"Stay put," Terence growled. Like her, he had a biting temper. But she was almost never on this end of it. It cut her like a hundred sculpting knives, as if they were flicking nicks against the delicate flesh of her heart.

Even so, she almost answered back, "As if I could go anywhere." But she kept her mouth shut, nodding bitterly as he hurled away. Where he was going, she could only guess. To get help, probably.

Because she was stranded. And now that her drawing was finished, now that she'd ridden that high... there was only cold fear now. That real, awful, nauseating feeling.

But looking at her work...

Would it be stupid to say it was worth it?

Very likely.

The princess and her companions were gone. The southern grounds were nearly empty, save for several guards patrolling the castle perimeter. Would they have heard her if Terence had not come? If she screamed for help?

Perhaps. Perhaps not. From this altitude, it was hard to tell.

She didn't bother counting the minutes as she waited. She just kept staring out to the horizon, trying to appreciate the glittering Orynth from this angle. It was probably the last time she would be allowed around high windows.

On and on, time stretched. Did she regret this? It was an impulsive decision, but there was something about this piece of parchment resting in her lap. Black and grey from a colorless pencil, but strangely colorful all the same. She'd never made anything like it.

Once again, her name pierced the empty wind, but the voice did not belong to her brother.

"Lyanna?" Rowan's rumbling tone had her cringing. She might have convinced Terence not to tell her parents. There was no hope now.

The king leaned over the sill, spotting her with that hawk's glare. Lyanna smiled weakly.

"Hello, Uncle."

She thought he would roll his eyes. Instead, he looked to the city. Or—oddly—looked to the air in front of him, and narrowed his eyes. With a small wave of his large hand, an unnatural draft formed, billowing around her and—

Only her clenched teeth kept her from yelping. Her entire body was suddenly in the air, and she curled into a ball, doing her best not to panic. Rowan would not drop her. She held fast to that thought.

It was a formidable distance that she'd crossed from the sill to the canopy. That hadn't been so painstakingly apparent until now, as she hovered in open air, with almost nothing to support her.

She loosed a hard breath. Rowan would _not_ drop her.

And he didn't.

His power guided her through the opening, and he held his arms open to set her lightly in his hold.

"Are you alright?"

Her own arms curled instinctively around him. As a child, he'd always played with her in the courtyard when her family visited. They would lob frost balls of his own making at each other, leaving them drenched as the sun melted the snowy orbs. Clasping him now was no stranger than embracing Aelin.

Unfortunately, she didn't have time to answer him. Her lips had been ready to form a _yes_ when she was wrenched away, and she suddenly collided with a broad chest.

"What in _shit's_ name were you thinking?"

Terence clutched her so hard she had to force a breath into her lungs. But then he pulled away sharply, smacking the pad clean out of her hands.

"Terence—"

"_Answer me,_" he snarled.

She couldn't. She tried, but it was like her tongue was paralyzed, unable to produce any words other than, "I—I... I'm sorry."

They were a poor excuse for an apology, and they both knew it. Boiling rage tinged his pure-gold eyes, shot with red veins. A pulse of electricity made her realize he'd never been this angry at her.

Terence was struggling to keep himself in check, to rein in his fury. It scared her, worse than any height.

"You can keep that," he spat, jerking his chin towards the pad splayed across a step, pages awkwardly holding it aloft.

Without a moment's hesitation, she bent to reach for it—

He grasped her hand and violently twisted her back up. The motion made her ripped fingernails throb, and she sucked in a gasp.

"Not you," he told her, taking note of her injury and encircling her hand in both of his. In all but a second, his magic flared, and the pain was suddenly gone. Her confusion was not.

"What are you—?"

"You. Keep the rutting thing." Terence said, looking over his shoulder. And Lyanna's stomach coiled.

Eren Ardere stood behind her brother, expression severe and disapproving. What in hell was _he _doing here? Lyanna didn't even try to hide her grimace.

"Do what you want with it," Terence continued. "Burn it for all I care."

That punched a hole right through her gut.

"What? Terence, _no_—"

"I don't understand how you might even _begin_ to think that was worth your life," he seethed, looking ready to slap her. She wouldn't know what to do if he did. Would she slap him back? That hardly seemed fair. But she couldn't do _nothing_ either.

"Alright, I _wasn't_ thinking, but please—"

"Shut it. We're going to Mother and Father. I'll physically carry you if I have to. And you're going to tell them what you did. I won't leave you be until you do."

"Fine, but—"

"And you're going to have a servant with you at all times."

She gaped. "I'm not a _child_, Terence—"

"Really? Adults know how to care for themselves. Your little _idea_ suggests you don't."

Now he was just humiliating her. She tried to rip her hand from his grasp, but he held firm. Hissing through her teeth, she considered dislodging him, using one of the many, painful techniques her father had taught her...

But—no. This was her _brother_. She wouldn't.

So she settled for glaring at him. She could take humiliation. She supposed she deserved it.

With a final snarl, he gripped her arm forcefully and hauled her down the stairs, leaving the pair of males who'd been silently watching behind.

But then he whirled, turning his gaze on the guard.

"No, actually, I _do _care what becomes of that. I'd ask that you shred it to smithereens. _Then_ burn it."

Despite herself, the thought made her want to weep. It was the most perfect thing she'd ever created. But the means by which she was able to make it... she had cost herself this.

Ardere's brow furrowed, and he dipped his chin in soundless agreement. Not quite obedience, as Terence hadn't commanded him, but only made a request.

She only had a second to throw a murderous glance in the guard's direction. So she did. It wasn't the bare and open threat she'd flung at him the other day, but a threat all the same.

He'd better not. He'd better _not_.

His green-and-brown eyes met hers for the smallest fraction of time. She couldn't decipher what they held.

But then Terence hauled her away, not deigning to be gentle.

And it was only then that she felt the regret in full force.

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The itch remained.

It had been dulled by the nervousness over Aelin and her new babe, had been tucked away when more pressing concerns lingered.

But Rhoe was as healthy as could be. So was Aelin.

And so the itch remained.

Castoran had planned to wait until he left Orynth with the Westfalls. But the urge was particularly strong today, and he knew—as much as he loved them—he only wanted one person there with him. Well... in truth, he wanted three. But his parents were inaccessible at the moment. So he padded down the halls of the palace, on his way to that remaining person's chambers.

He knew she would be free; Ava's tutor and her dull-as-dishwater son had long since left the princess to her own devices. And he also knew that she'd taken a swim in the Florine after lessons, accompanied by a number of guards and servants. Which meant she was napping right now, soundly regaining her strength.

He might have let her drowse. But he didn't want to wait any longer. Deep within him, the itch flared.

Castoran debated on walking right in. But even with their close bond, it seemed odd, and not to mention rude. So when he reached her intricately-carved door, he rapped his knuckles against it, and waited.

It took a few moments. And a few more raps. But eventually, the door opened, just a tiny bit, to reveal a heavy-lidded Ava, golden hair shining in the waning sun's light pouring in from the windows.

Of course her windows were open.

"Morning." He grinned.

She scowled. "What do you want, oaf?"

"That's awfully impolite. What, no 'Hello to you, too,' or 'How lovely of you to grace me with your presence, Cas?'"

"Shut up. I was having a rather nice dream."

"A dream, eh. About what?"

To his surprise, she flushed, and prettily so. But then answered, "About Adarlanian princes leaving me to nap."

"You mean to tell me you were asleep... and dreaming... about being asleep? Gods' ashes, you _are _dull."

It got her to open the door more fully. She pushed it away with ease, the hinges and heavy oak no match for her Fae strength. She was a child still, but her very blood hummed with magic and might. Eleven years old, and already formidably powerful.

He beamed as she pinched his arm. "I'm saying I was asleep and dreaming about being asleep... and also about dreaming," she said.

"Now you're just being strange. Dreams within dreams? Even I,"—the freakish half-blood prince—"don't stoop to that level of outlandishness."

"It's not that odd. Your mind is just too dense to even _think_ of such a notion." She flashed her canines.

"_My_ mind is dense? I'm not the one who doesn't understand those physical science equations."

Ava glared hotly. "I'm not _supposed_ to understand it. Father has me and my brothers on some advanced course. He's insane."

Castoran studied his nails. "I thought the concepts were rather simple."

"And I thought I would get to drowse through the evening." She raised her eyebrows, tilting her head. Anyone else would have thought that kind of look predatory. But he knew her; her eyes didn't shine with the thrill of a hunt. Only with mild curiosity. "What do you want?" she repeated.

He forced the words out before he could hesitate to voice them.

"I want to visit the Thirteen."

Ava blinked, bleary gaze focusing as her forehead furrowed.

"I want you to come with me."

And thankfully, Ava did not hesitate either. Not for one second.

"Yes," she said, and waved him inside.

It didn't take him long to realize it was his first time in her room. He'd walked her to it, many times. But he'd never actually stepped inside.

It was so _her_. The walls were the same color as the Florine, which was visible if one stood on her balcony. Here and there, lifelike little waves were painted in white, small swells to push a current in an otherwise unmoving mass of water. In one corner of the chamber stood a lovely white fountain, resembling a birdbath more than anything else. And all throughout, the space was peppered with weapons; her polished, slender wooden sword lay propped against her nightstand, with a small bow beside it. The quiver of arrows, made from blue steel, hung from one of her bedposts, and a dagger glinted from a nail in the wall beside the frame.

And even the floor was such an Ava thing to like; it was white-gold sand evenly and meticulously distributed across the room, then covered by a giant pane of glass. It reminded him of the beach, as one stood in the tide.

"Your room is nice," he said. Only when it was out of his mouth did he realize it probably sounded stupid.

But Ava only laughed. "My parents say it took a chunk out of our coffers to pay for it. But I don't believe them. Father's family is filthy rich. And Mother knows how to run a kingdom. She's made us wealthy, too. Trade negotiations, all that."

He nodded, looking away as she stepped behind a screen to change from her soft gown to sturdier clothes. It was a pointless action, turning from her direction, but he did it anyway, opting instead to let his eyes wander elsewhere. Eventually, they settled on the knife glinting by her bed.

"That's rather beautiful. That knife." It was engraved with small gusts of wind and tiny tongues of flame, a round little emerald winking from the thin handle. It perfectly matched the pine-green hue of her eyes.

"It was a gift from them. Mother and Father. I love it."

That was part of the reason he and Ava got along so well. Most girls at her age liked dolls and tall tales. But the princess liked weapons and war stories. It was comforting knowledge.

Because Ava wasn't a monster by any means. That had to mean he wasn't either... right?

"I think I scare my aunt sometimes," he mused, quietly enough that he hardly heard himself. Ava, however, with her preternatural senses just as keen as his, did not need him to repeat it.

"What do you mean?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he asked, "When we spar... do I ever frighten you?"

He kept that sort of animalistic part of himself driven deep, shoveled under kindness and affection for the world around him. But when it came to fighting... he couldn't help but let it free, just a little.

He'd never asked about it. But he'd seen the look on Yrene's face when she'd first watched him train. And he would never forget it.

Ava didn't need to ask to understand. "Maybe once. During our first spar. But I think I like it now. Makes the game exciting."

Castoran sighed. No, not a monster. But she certainly harbored her own share of insanity.

"Never mind," he muttered. He shouldn't have said anything.

But she caught the regret in his tone. "Alright, well," she said. "Sometimes, it's more than the game. It might have scared me before, but then I realized something."

"Which is?" he asked.

"That it's just you. It's just Cas, letting loose."

That was a mild way of putting it. _Letting loose_. As if he was merely tossing back a few mugs of ale.

Ava emerged then, dressed in a simple white tunic and deep green pants, her feet clad in soft, polished brown boots. "Don't worry about it," she told him. "You can be you around me." Ava winked, cracking a smile. "I promise."

The walk down to the palace grounds seemed to set his skin abuzz. It was almost as if the monuments held some sort of gravitational pull, luring him out onto Theralis, calling to the parts of him that were Ironteeth witch.

There were a few. There was the extra eyelid, for example, that could be pulled down whenever he mounted a wyvern, or even the occasional ruk. He didn't have iron nails. But he did have iron teeth—or rather, razor-sharp, gleaming fangs instead of an entire set. And not to mention his blood; it wasn't completely blue, but still more blue than red.

He barely registered Ava linking their arms together as they reached the grounds. Not until two figures stepped in their path, effectively blocking them.

Two guards. Not imposing, but they were a nuisance. Castoran wanted to snap at them to _move_, to get out of the way. In his core, the itch prickled.

"Your Highness," the one on the right addressed the princess. "You must be with an escort if you are to leave the palace. Their Majesties have ordered it."

"And I order you to stand down," she argued. "We'll be fine."

"Forgive me, Your Highness. You must be accompanied."

Ava turned visibly irritated. Her cheeks flushed again, but this time it was more angry than embarrassed. She extracted her arm from Castoran's to fold across her chest, ever the stubborn girl.

Silence hung around them for several moments. Until Ava finally conceded.

"One guard. That's it." She whirled to look about the room, where several others stood, backs straight, uniforms pristine. She frowned at her options, her eyes gliding over each one except for—

"You." She jerked her chin in the woman's direction. "You may come with us."

The guard in question was human, like most of the palace's staff. Her auburn hair was tied back into a tight knot at the base of her head, revealing slender shoulders and a thin neck. But she by no means looked weak; she held her body like that of a rearing serpent, positioned to strike if provoked.

"Your Highness." The woman bowed her head. "I would protect you with my life. But perhaps someone more able—"

"No, I want you."

Ava turned, facing the two before them once more. The one who had spoken had his jaw set, as if reluctant to allow her choice in company. Still he said nothing. "Step aside," Ava said, waving a few of her shell-pink-painted fingers.

The pair obeyed, stiffly but immediately.

"Your Highness must also notify your own guards," the one on the left said, speaking to Castoran.

"For what purpose?" he said, annoyed as the princess beside him. Even if there was danger, he could hold his own. So could Ava. And with a guard accompanying them, only an idiot would think to attack them.

Not that it was an issue. Orynth's crime rates had plummeted like a stone since Aelin took up her place on the throne.

"They should be notified," the man continued. "Your Highness is their responsibility—"

"Then _you_ notify them." Ava retorted. "We're going."

They looked ready to argue. But after a second's consideration, they decided it was futile; Ava was, after all, daughter to two of the most obstinate people on the continent.

The female guard stepped forward, trailing behind them as they strode out onto the grounds. She was graceful as a housecat, her footfalls silent against the stone stairs.

"What is your name?" Ava asked her.

"Brea Haven, Your Highness."

"Are you from Orynth?"

"Yes, my lady."

Her voice was terse, yet silky as melted chocolate. A girl like Rielle, Castoran realized, doing his best to ignore the pool of anticipation in his stomach. "You're a dancer," he said. Not a question.

Haven nodded. "I was, before I joined the Guard."

"And a singer," Ava added.

Another nod. "Yes. I used to earn my lunch from singing in the Grand Square."

Ava's brow crinkled. "Earn your lunch…" Her eyes, emerald in the still-fading sunlight, widened in understanding. "Oh."

To Haven's credit, she only chuckled. "Her Majesty has found solutions to many of Terrasen's issues. But poverty is a part of any civilization. Your mother could build a million sheltered homes, but there's always going to be a few stragglers."

"I didn't mean to intrude," the princess said softly.

But Haven shook her head. "It's no intrusion, Your Highness. If anything, I believe those with..." She struggled to find the right words. "... more blessed circumstances should see the goings-on in the lives of the poor. See them and know to be thankful."

It was a comment many would consider out of line. Bold, this woman was. First, in suggesting Ava's choice had been wrong when she advised her to select someone else, and then in practically telling her to never take her privileges for granted. But Ava merely dipped her chin, flashing a winning grin at Haven.

"Indeed," she said.

Somewhere along the trek across the castle grounds, they reached the stables and mounted horses. Ava possessed her own—a beautiful brown stallion named Skeat, his coat glossy and his mane evenly brushed. Castoran rode a borrowed grey mare, and Haven followed closely behind on another stallion, shorter but slightly stouter than Ava's.

He didn't see the city around them as they exited the grounds. He could only focus on the southern gates, which seemed to pull his body by a string to his heart.

Orynth, as usual, was a blur of activity. But unlike the last time he'd passed through the main road, he paid it no heed.

More than anything else, he was _excited_. He didn't let himself be jittery, didn't beam at his friend. But he couldn't deny that waiting to see them was like waiting for a meal when he was famished.

It took longer than he would have liked. The sun was making its final pulls toward the horizon just as they reached the city gates. At least here, though, there was hardly any impediment. Haven simply needed to hop down after Ava briefly informed her where they intended to go, have a swift chat with the sentinels posted on the ground, and the smaller opening carved within the massive doors rolled agape, granting them passage.

Castoran urged his horse before it was even fully open. Ava followed, and so did Haven when she was back on her horse.

Over the threshold they all rode, the horses' hooves stamping on the hard road. But there—

Lancing out into the sky, twelve statues carved into swords.

He turned sharply to the princess.

"I'll race you."

She hardly had time to grin wickedly at him before he took off, flying through the field, cutting through the long grass like a spear. He heard Skeat's disgruntled neigh, followed by thunderous hoofbeats, pounding along.

Ava overtook him in a few heartbeats. Her horse was likely better cared for, given that it belonged to a princess, and princesses often demanded perfection. Skeat streaked by and eventually passed Castoran's mare, galloping side by side with her long enough for Ava to pull tiny droplets of moisture from the air and fling them at his face.

He yelled indignantly, shaking his head and fixing his eyes on the monuments growing with each hard stride. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he noticed Haven keeping up with him easily, her body leaned forward in a brace against the moving beast beneath her.

On and on they dashed, crushing the plush grass underfoot and laughing as they did.

Until the monuments became too close to run toward at full speed. Until they came close enough for him to note the details carved on the pommels of those stone swords—tiny wyverns, varying in size and even colors, though the hues were so faint, human eyes would not have been able to detect them.

Castoran leaped from his mare, Ava following soon after. Haven stayed mounted, shuffling away to give them privacy. She rounded the semicircle with a wide berth, eyes darting from Oakwald to the more concealing parts of the plain. He would have told her not to worry about it; if anything or anyone dared to attack, he'd hear it before they could.

But he didn't tell her, because he was staring at the name carved into the base of the first statue.

_ASTERIN BLACKBEAK_

_SECOND IN COMMAND TO THE COVEN OF THE THIRTEEN_

Asterin. Castoran.

That couldn't be a coincidence.

He didn't think he would cry. He had no reason to; he'd never known them. But a part of him wanted so badly to do so—to know them as his mother did, to ride with them, dine with them.

He did not know them. But still he longed.

Ava wiped one of his stray tears with her sleeve.

Without thinking, he stepped forward. Put his hand on that name, the name like his. Leaned his brow against it. It seemed to hum in response—or perhaps he was imagining it.

"Father says you loved my mother more than anyone in the world."

He shouldn't cry. He really shouldn't cry. Pursing his lips, he did his best to dry his eyes.

"And he says you gave your life to protect her."

Another almost-imaginary hum.

"And that Mother loved you, too. It tore her apart to lose you."

Castoran sighed, swallowing against the lump in his throat. Ava waited nearby, silent and comforting, her mere presence like a cool cloth against a fever-run head.

_She_ did not cry. But her eyes harbored a sadness beyond her years. One he had no doubt his own eyes echoed. She drew closer, glancing at each of the statues with respect and gratitude, placing her small hand on every one as she passed.

"The world has the Thirteen to thank," she said. "Has you, Asterin Blackbeak. Has you, Sorrel Blackbeak. And you, Vesta Blackbeak."

She said each of their names proudly, pacing along the curved line they formed.

_FALINE BLACKBEAK_

_FALLON BLACKBEAK_

_EDDA BLACKBEAK_

_BRIAR BLACKBEAK_

_THEA BLACKBEAK_

_KAYA BLACKBEAK_

_LINNEA BLACKBEAK_

_GHISLAINE BLACKBEAK_

_IMOGEN BLACKBEAK_

Something in his heart strained to see her do it. It was almost as if she was a star, imparting her light upon each witch, honoring them with her words. And with her power.

It took some concentration, he could tell. But as she acknowledged every member of the coven, she wove a ring of ice to lean against the base of each statue.

He watched as the ice transformed, melded into... tongues of flame?

No, not flames. Flowers. Flowers, because—

"Terrasen will know. My little brothers and sister will know. _Blood to blood and soul to soul, together this was done, and only together can it be undone. Be the bridge, be the light._" It poured like a song from her lips, formed with reverence, lined with admiration. But she did not continue. Instead, she looked at him expectantly, mouth curved into a soft smile.

He knew the saying by heart. "_When iron melts, when flowers spring from fields of blood—let the land be witness, and return home._"

༺═──────────────═༻

"_And return home..."_

_From deep within the Afterworld, twelve souls listened._

_And twelve souls smiled._

༺═──────────────═༻

~ just a little disclaimer. idk you guys. But also ily guys.

~ don't forget to post that feedback!

xo


	10. An Offer

Aelin and Yrene spend time together. | Rowan takes his family out.

disclaimer: sarah j. maas owns all (except for the new generation).

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Days had passed, and with each moment flitting by, she felt her body heal in the way that no amount of magic could force. But it wasn't to say she wouldn't wear the small pocket of remaining weight around her waist with pride. It marked for what she'd done—conceived, carried, and birthed a healthy son, all in her Fae body.

Aelin held motionless as Rhoe blinked up at her from one arm, and as Yrene pressed gentle fingers to the inside of the other.

"I've meetings to attend," Aelin teased, mock-frowning at the healer. Despite herself, these examinations, performed in the comfort of the royal suite, always seemed to calm her. She lazed against a plush chaise, resting her head on the soft mound the pillow beneath provided.

Yrene only rolled her eyes. "And you know Rowan is handling them well in your stead."

"He might need a break."

"Rowan didn't just push an eight-pound infant out of his body. And Rowan didn't almost die in the process. Who needs the break here?"

Aelin snorted, shaking her head. If she was being honest, she _was_ grateful for the time this temporary agenda was granting her. It allowed her to sleep in longer than she cared to admit, and if Rowan was to be believed about Rhoe being their last child, she took care to cherish each moment with her newborn, knowing she wouldn't relive those kinds of moments again.

Yrene plucked a small log from her bag on the floor and scribbled upon it with a black pencil, her brow furrowing in concentration. She had also rested well after the events of Rhoe's birth; her thick tresses cascaded softly down her back under a simple crown of braids, every hair groomed and tucked into place, and her molten eyes shone with that very Yrene-like spark. The bruises beneath had vanished, as did the paleness in her face—without any magic to make it so, Yrene was glowing.

Aelin frowned, eyeing the lady with a slight twinge of sadness.

"You are leaving soon."

Joyous were the Westfalls' visits. A sense of melancholy always poked at her heart to see them leave, no matter how many times she assured herself she would see them again.

Yrene nodded, hooking her hair behind her ear. "You're healthy; Rhoe is healthy. Not much to work with." She smiled softly.

"And you've got plenty to work with in Adarlan," Aelin sighed.

Another nod. "I have the Torre to run. And my children to look after, apparently."

Ah. Aelin didn't need the sudden twist of Yrene's mouth, or the slanting of her brow to understand.

"Lyanna seems alright to me," Aelin said. Rowan had told her about the incident as they lay in bed two nights ago, spending the last few minutes of the day warm in each other's embrace. He'd recounted how the young lady had climbed up one of the lengthier towers and hopped down to a nearby canopy, drawing Orynth as she perched. And he'd said it had all been for the illustration, and that it was truly one of the most striking pieces he had ever seen.

Ardere presented it to Aelin the next day.

_It's not my place to burn it, Your Majesty. Perhaps you should decide._

But what a waste it would have been.

_Keep it for now._

Then it had been quiet for a few moments. Until the guard said, "Your Majesty... I never apologized about Felix. I realize asking you to employ him was a severe mistake. And if it jeopardizes my position, I accept any consequences."

She'd waved him off, having already considered. "You are not responsible for his faults. You'll find your position is secure. And the title of Captain of the Guard remains reserved."

Reserved, because there was no one better for the appointment; Ardere reminded her more of Quinn than any of the other guards. Beneath the layer of severity, there was that same kindness her uncle's Captain had always displayed before the world had gone to shit. There was the same patience. Same determination.

"Lyanna's always been impulsive," Yrene muttered, pressing her pencil hard into the parchment. "But this? Jumping from a window? What am I to make of that?"

"She did it for her work. Not that it justifies anything, but after that boy, I think she was feeling empty."

"Empty," the healer said bitterly. "Better to be empty than dead."

She continued her scribbling, shaking her head and mumbling to herself.

"I would guess that she's lost," Aelin sighed. "Her passion is influenced by her emotions, and she has none to give now. And she has no one who shares her interest."

"And I understand that. But endangering her life for the sake of a _drawing?_ Is she _suicidal?_" The words were angry, but Yrene couldn't hid the pure terror dripping from them, her golden gaze wide.

Aelin could only imagine. To come so close to losing a child. The thought of any one of hers dangling from one of the castle towers made her skin crawl, her bones fill with dread.

"No," she said quickly, doing her best to shake the image from her head and holding Rhoe close to her chest. "Lyanna only feels dull. Perhaps if she knew others like her."

"Others like her?"

"Those artistically inclined. I could enroll her in Delles."

Yrene was quiet for a moment, her rage and fear simmering down as she took deep breaths. She slowly reached for her satchel, sliding the log and pencil inside. "Delles," she mumbled.

Aelin nodded. "It has a branch for visual creativity."

"But... she'd have to stay in Orynth. Until the summer." The lady frowned deeply, etching shadowy lines into her face.

Not that Aelin couldn't understand. Dorian was accustomed to being away from his son. She knew the routine; Castoran would travel to be with his mother in the Witch Kingdom for a few months, then return to Adarlan. But Yrene and Chaol... they had never been separated from either of their children.

"It's up to your family, of course. But there is a place for her here, should she want it."

The healer took a seat at the foot of the chaise, slinging an arm over the back. "In Rifthold... her friends aren't like her. They enjoy superficial things. Riches and luxuries and the like."

"All the more reason to let her stay. Let her befriend others who understands." Aelin raised her brows. "Who wouldn't reprimand her for leaping from a window."

Yrene scowled. "Throw anybody who condones leaping from windows into your dungeon."

She had to laugh. "I'll just let you have at them instead."

Yrene pushed out a weary sigh, the gust of air sweeping the hem of Aelin's gown. "I truly hope your children won't stop your heart like this."

"Too late," Aelin said. "Ava used to injure herself more than she breathed before she became proficient in swordplay. And Ren would sometimes hit his head on the sides of the pianoforte—hard."

A light chuckle. Hesitant. "And the others?"

She pondered for an instant. "Reavan always picked up knives when Rowan and I weren't looking, and then proceeded to slice up those hunks of clay he's always playing with. Amora was springing from our arms long before she was capable of shifting into her falcon form." And still, Amora had only shifted once in her life.

Yes, her sons and daughters, young and rambunctious, were Fae. Graceful and strong, agile and nimble. But they were children. Prone to accidents, still, subject to mishaps.

"I wonder what headaches this little one will cause me," Aelin said, brushing her nose against Rhoe's head.

Yrene hummed. "I don't think he'll be particularly difficult."

"What makes you say so?"

"My magic," she said. "It's like... whenever it touches him, it dances. Like it's found an equal."

An equal. As in powerful healing magic?

"I think he'll be like me," Yrene said softly. "Like Terence. Perhaps with even more potent gifts."

Aelin deliberated. Then said, "So if his power is meant to soothe, then his nature must be the same?"

Even now, while he pierced the night air with his cries as any other infant would, he was calm during the day. A comfort in her arms when she fed him, a sweet touch of cool wind when he napped.

"I think so. That's why I'd said something about him demanded balance when you birthed him. For such a life-giving, revitalizing force to enter the world, something must be taken."

Aelin's life. A spindle of displeasure wormed its way down her spine at the memory.

But she said, "It seems fair. Except I wasn't taken."

"Well, it's only a theory. Regardless, I think you should begin drinking a contraceptive tonic." Yrene's brow furrowed, eyeing the bodice of Aelin's gown.

Aelin grinned, dipping her chin. "Not necessary."

"Given your unusual fertility, I think it's a good choice. Unless you want to be celibate," Yrene countered, her mouth curling. "Though I doubt that is likely."

"Of course it's not likely," Aelin said, rolling her eyes. "And as smart an idea as it is, I'm positive I won't be getting pregnant again. As such, I plan to thoroughly, _thoroughly_ enjoy myself. For a thousand years, at least."

The lady beamed. "Sensually crazed as ever."

"Rowan doesn't complain."

"And what happens when your children have night terrors?"

Aelin frowned. "That has happened before."

Yrene burst into another dazzling smile. "Oh no. Who was it?"

"It was Ava. She'd gotten a hold of an illustration of some beast I'd felled during my time in Adarlan earlier in the day, a horrid thing called a ridderak. Rowan and I were in the middle of things. But then we scented her tears from outside our door, and we had to let her sleep between us."

A snort. "It's happened to us, too. Chaol was once recounting the healing process we had undergone in Antica to Terence. He was young, about seven. Chaol told him about the darkness that dwelled in that broken part of his spine, where the scar still stains his back. He regretted saying anything later that night."

They both laughed, but a twinge of sadness tugged at Aelin's gut. She hadn't realized how much she missed female company; Lysandra was miles away, strengthening Terrasen's trading bonds with other kingdoms from Caraverre, and Elide was performing her duties as Lady of Perranth, carefully presiding over one of Terrasen's largest territories.

Here Yrene was, leaving soon. And as her laughter ebbed, Aelin frowned.

"I do hate goodbyes."

A soft breath blew from Yrene's lips. "We'll be back in a few months."

"You could stay until Rhoe's Hailing." Even as she said it, she knew they wouldn't. But Aelin so rarely saw her friends, she wanted to hold fast to them as long as she could.

"We all have responsibilities in Adarlan. And Dorian... with Cas and Manon and us all gone, he's alone."

She was right of course. Still, Aelin grumbled. "If he'd come, he wouldn't be so lonely."

Yrene lightly swatted her leg. "You'll see him in time. You'll see everyone in time."

The only instances when she could see her friends; the birth of children. Whether it was her children, or Dorian's, Chaol's and Yrene's, Aedion and Lysandra's, Lorcan and Elide's, Nesryn and Sartaq's. They all gathered, always. And they rejoiced together, as they had defeated the Valg and made way for this life together.

Strange the feeling was—her heart pulled her in two directions, wishing Rhoe's time as an infant would pass slowly, but also hoping these first three months would speed along.

Yrene pushed up from her perch on the chaise, gathering up her satchel and slinging it over her shoulder.

"Speak to Chaol and Lyanna," Aelin said. "Tell them of my offer."

A hesitant nod. "It's a gracious offer, Aelin. We'll mull it over."

Yrene strode out, her simple frock billowing behind her as she walked—leaving Aelin alone with her son, who kissed his nose as the door clicked shut.

༺═──────────────═༻

This year was different.

For the whole of this new age, Aelin had received gifts from their subjects, from royalty of other kingdoms, from across the sea, from old friends and new. And it was always the same—fine jewels, expensive garments, queenly garb.

But this year was different.

For carrying his five children, for filling them with her light and her flame, he would give her something Terrasen would remember for generations to come.

Rowan scrawled on a thick piece of parchment, Reavan slumped against his chest, melding a lump of glop into a small humanoid figure.

The words he had so far were simple.

_To the Grand Master, Irano Belaine._

_As is common knowledge, my wife, Her Majesty Queen Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius, has a birthday in a few weeks._

_I should like to work with you to comprise my gift to her._

Reavan crushed his small man, rolling the collapsed figure into a ball. "Can we play with Rhoe yet, Papa?" he asked. "I haven't played with him."

"Rhoe is being examined with your mother. And I think you have to wait a bit before he can be any fun."

"Why?"

"He's a newborn. He only eats and sleeps right now."

"I can eat with him."

Rowan laughed, ruffling his son's hair. "Not yet. Besides, aren't you enjoying yourself here with me?"

"You're busy writing your letters, Papa."

"And if I wasn't? What would you like to do?"

Reavan cocked his head to the side, considering carefully. His silky silver hair fanned against his face, catching the light in a bluish glint.

"I want to decorate another room. With Ava and Ren. And Amora."

"We can't decorate a room if there's no one to decorate it for. And Ava and Ren are in their lessons right now."

"You can pull them out."

"Pull them out," Rowan chuckled. "Their studies are important, Reav. Especially Ava's. She's going to be queen one day. She has to be intelligent."

"She already is," Reavan said, shaking his head. "Please, Papa? We can go swimming. We never play together anymore."

Truthfully, they didn't. Before Rhoe, they would often spend time together as a family, being at leisure in the queen's garden, or chasing each other through the halls. Always in the evenings, when the day's responsibilities no longer demanded to be fulfilled, and so they could work up an appetite for dinner. But Aelin had gotten pregnant, and Rowan became more preoccupied with her well-being.

"Please, Papa?" Reavan repeated, blinking those eyes akin to Rowan's pleadingly.

If there was ever a weakness for Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius, it was his damned children. He sighed. "Alright. You win."

Reavan leaped from his perch on Rowan's lap, bounding lightly through the regal office.

"We go as soon as I finish my letter."

The young prince sobered at that. He sank into one of the empty chairs before the large oak desk, his foot shaking in anticipation.

Rowan plucked up his pen, closing off the message briefly and tersely: _Write me any ideas you might have. And I'll share with you my own. Best, Her Consort Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius._

Without having thought much about it, Rowan already knew what he wanted. Something to bring her back to their past, when they were just discovering and acknowledging their feelings. But also something to remind her of their thousand years—the ones they were going to spend together.

He scribbled the address and sealed the letter, the deep green wax making a quiet sizzling sound as he pressed the cold metal stamp into it.

"Guard."

The pair that was standing vigilant outside his office door strode in. Why Aelin insisted on keeping them there—as there was almost nothing to guard against, and as Rowan was more than capable of defending his own self—he hadn't the faintest idea. But of course, he couldn't deny they sometimes had their uses.

Rowan stood and held up the parchment, handing it to the slightly smaller guard as he stepped forward. "Give this to a messenger. Tell them it's a priority."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

The young man took the roll and stepped out, his companion following closely behind. As the door winked shut, Rowan turned to his son.

"Let's go find your sister."

༺═──────────────═༻

The day was bright and hot, unusual for the spring but perfect for a day at the river.

"And is there a reason you've so suddenly decided we should all go swimming?" Aelin called from beside Rowan, Rhoe bound to her chest and Amora sharing her saddle.

They were nearing the eastern borders of Theralis, making their way to the Florine by horse. Their children trailed behind them—or at least, Ava and Ren did, each of them riding on their own. Reavan sat with Rowan as Amora did with Aelin, chattering excitedly, his pine eyes darting from the sky to the ground, from the trees to the city, which was growing smaller and smaller beyond the plain.

They were nearing the river, close enough to run and hurl oneself into it, but still far that the horses could wander off.

"Someone convinced me." Rowan jerked his chin towards the silver head swaying with the strides of the horse. "I found it rather difficult to say no to him."

Aelin laughed, stroking Amora's own head. "The things we do for them."

"They really should appreciate us more."

His mate shook her head, sighing as she gazed down at their two youngest.

"He said we never spend time together anymore," Rowan said. "Not like we used to. I thought to remedy that state of affairs."

"I'm glad," Rendyll piped. "We hardly get to see you, Mother."

Aelin beamed as they inched closer, the Florine's babble becoming louder with each pace forward. "We see each other every night."

"For dinner hour," Ava said. "And that's it."

"Yes, Mama," called Reavan, "I miss you."

She laughed, light and clear as the wind whenever it sang to Rowan. "Tell me you're not only saying that so you can get me to agree to let you stay up longer."

The prince grinned impishly, not bothering to deny it.

The gurgling waters grew louder still, and it was a few seconds before they overtook the banks, those of small, smooth stones instead of the mud that caked the shore miles down. Ava leaped off her stallion immediately, shrugging off her thin slip to reveal a soft tunic and white shorts.

Rendyll did the same, albeit slower. He wasn't as fond of swimming as his sister, and while he enjoyed it more than any person with flaming magic should, he took his time in peeling off his clothes, having also opted for a pair of shorts.

Rowan swung his leg back, dismounting as they halted a few feet from the bank, and retrieving Reavan from the saddle soon after. The boy immediately scrambled after his brother and sister, who were now toeing the water, testing it for temperature.

"Do you need help?" Rowan said to his mate.

Aelin rolled her eyes in answer, which wasn't unexpected. Gracefully, effortlessly, his wife lowered herself from the grey mare, careful not to jostle their babe. When she stood on her own feet, she gripped Amora from under the arms, unbuttoned her dress and folded it carefully, and watched as the youngest princess toddled over to her siblings, donning the same clothes as Ava.

"Don't know why I ask," Rowan muttered, shrugging off his shirt.

He turned just in time to see Ava dive gracefully into the turquoise current, Rendyll watching from where he waded in.

"I don't either," Aelin replied, padding over, her footfalls silent against the swaying grass. She laid a hand against his chest, digging her fingers in slightly.

He didn't hesitate to lean in and kiss her, with their children too preoccupied to argue against it. He heard their splashes and shrieks, and could guess from mere sound that Ava was bombarding Rendyll with strong little swells, and he was sending water careening into her face in return. Reavan and Amora were sitting in the shallows, the levels to their chests, Reavan's hands burrowing themselves into the pebbles beneath him.

Rowan caressed Aelin's face and pulled her close, taking care to not smother their son between them.

"Reavan says he misses you."

"He wants a later curfew," Aelin laughed, shaking her head.

"And if I say _I_ miss you?"

"I see you more than anyone. You want something, too." She glanced down meaningfully, raising her eyebrows as her gaze rested on the front of his pants.

He chuckled, low and soft, so only she could hear. "Perhaps. Only when you're ready. And if you're never ready, I suppose I'll just live with the eternal urge to take you."

"Eternal urge? As in, ever-present?"

"Could you blame me if it was?"

She made a show of considering, glancing down at her ravishing form and slowly brushing a thick tress of hair back, cocking her head to the side. "No, I suppose not. It is _me_, after all."

"And as always, your love for yourself knows no bounds."

"Nor will it ever," she mumbled, raising herself onto her toes and pressing her lips to his. Perhaps it wasn't the most appropriate thing, but he couldn't help himself—he parted his mouth to let her tongue slip against his, humming softly as her fingers wound their way into his hair.

"Mother, Father, _please,_" Rendyll grumbled from several feet away, drenched locks plastered to his head.

"Look away if you're so bothered, Ren," Aelin answered, waving him off. He scowled, but obeyed, Ava doing the same.

Aelin dipped her head, leaning her face against his chest, releasing his hair to press Rhoe flush against her. Her body had recovered beautifully, preternatural healing molding her form back to what it was quicker than any human's could. All that remained, any evidence of Rhoe's bloody birth, was the slight layer of weight around her hips, so thin it was almost undetectable. To anybody, it would have seemed she hadn't just carried a lofty infant, shoved him out, and nearly bleed to death in the process.

"Maybe we _are_ too affectionate," she said, a somberness lining her features.

Rowan only snorted. "Do you really believe that?"

She laughed again, swatting his arm. "Of course not. But maybe it says something that they admonish us."

"They can say what they will. I'll be mocking them when they find their mates."

Their children. With mates. An odd thought, it was, to picture them grown, to see them indulge in a love like the one he shared with Aelin...

"I'll join you on that front."

They watched their small creations together. Looked on as they screeched at each other, as they gulped in breaths before disappearing beneath the surface, or howled when they were victims to Ava's powerful little waves.

"We're parents," Aelin said, soft in marvel.

"That we are."

"We made them."

"We did."

His mate smiled. Brighter than the sun, more radiant than any day.

"I never doubted we could, you know," she said. "Not really."

"I didn't either."

Her smile grew. And it was like that moment when he had seen her from across the hall during her coronation—as the Song of Terrasen played and she walked forth in all her lovely glory. Again, he thought he had never seen anyone more beautiful.

He had never seen anyone more beautiful as she lay sweaty and weary after each birth. He had never seen anyone more beautiful as she sat upon her throne, every inch the queen within as she looked without. And he had never seen anyone more beautiful than she in this moment, as she held their son with reverence, with gentleness. As she looked upon her family and her magnificent eyes filled with bliss.

"What do you want for your birthday?" he asked, stroking her cheekbone with the pad of his thumb.

"To be surprised."

He grinned. "Done."

She rolled her eyes, but kissed the base of his throat. "Buzzard."

Then she made for the water, gown and all. Sat beside Reavan and Amora. Playfully trickled water onto Rhoe's head.

And as if his very core was being pulled towards them—towards his family—and as they played and laughed and spread their happiness, after he tied their horses to a stake in the ground, Rowan followed.

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~ shorter chapter this week, finals were dreadful

~ as always, tell me how you feel about it!

xo


	11. Farewell Dinner

Lyanna receives a letter. | The Galathyniuses and the Westfalls have their last dinner together.

disclaimer: sarah j. maas owns all (except for the new generation).

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Humiliating as it was, at least she had someone to talk to.

The girl was pretty, slim as a bird and quick as a fox, dancing about and dusting the room whenever Lyanna so much as shook lint from her gown.

Her name, fittingly, was Wren. And she was better company than Lyanna had had in days.

Perhaps nearly dying had its benefits. Lyanna burst into a laugh, rolling onto her side as she lay beside her newfound friend.

"That's awful."

"It's true! I swear it." The girl grinned, bearing a perfect row of snowy teeth. "I couldn't get the smell out of my hair for days."

Wren mostly worked in the kitchens, sometimes but rarely laundering the palace linens. She'd been changing Lyanna's sheets when Terence had shoved through the doorway, having come from their disastrous quarrel in the south tower. Without so much as a glance at the servant, he'd ordered her to monitor Lyanna for the remainder of their stay, stormed out, and did not come back.

It had been a few days. They hadn't spoken. It was killing her to fight with him, and each hour that passed felt like a blow to the gut.

She sighed, raising her hands to the air above her, then letting them drop like stones at her sides. "Terence can't really give you orders, you know. He's not a lord of Terrasen. You could leave."

A corner of Wren's mouth quirked up. "Perhaps. But when he comes to check on you—and he will—I'll be here."

Lyanna rolled her eyes, smacking the maid's arm. "Don't give me that. You're just like a friend I've got back home who likes him enough to rival the affections of his lover." Namely, Serene.

A frown. "Och. He has a lover?"

"Oh, yes. And she's gorgeous. And she's a dancer. And she can sing."

Wren scoffed. "Fleeting qualities. She'll one day get too old to dance, and her voice will deepen and lose its allure."

"Not likely. She's in highest demand for parties and gatherings. Even Dorian has her perform whenever he hosts events."

The maid scowled, but cocked her head in defeat. Really, there was no separating Terence and Rielle—they were so absorbed in each other it was a wonder they hadn't run off somewhere to elope.

"Dorian," Wren murmured, honey eyes sweeping across the canopy above them. "Aelin. You address them as if they weren't rulers to the two most powerful kingdoms in Erilea." A brief pause. "Must be nice, being your kind of royalty. All the luxury, no responsibility."

Lyanna huffed. "I'm not royal. And I'll have responsibilities one day, when I'm Lady of Anielle."

"You and not your brother?" Wren blurted. Then she flushed. "I mean—not that you're not capable."

"Terence is the heir apparent to the Torre of the North. He'll run it, while I inherit the Westfall fortune and my grandfather's lands. Although lately, it seems I'm going to be stuck in this room forever."

That wasn't true, of course. She could go about the castle as she pleased, so long as Wren accompanied her. But she'd seen the castle already. She wanted to go outside, throw a few daggers at targets, ride a horse across the grounds. But the outdoors were off-limits, by her brother's demand.

A timid knock echoed through the chamber, making Lyanna's head whip towards the door.

Terence?

She breathed his name, stomach tightening. A glance at Wren, whose lips pulled into a smirk, had her rolling her eyes and peeling herself from her bed.

Had he come to apologize? Would she apologize?

She padded to the chamber entrance, her steps light as air but nervous all the same.

Slowly, deliberately, she opened the door, inhaling a deep breath—

"Lady Lyanna? A letter for you."

A strange mix of emotions churned in her stomach. It was only a messenger, a boy no older than fourteen. Disappointment bled into her core—and also relief. While it hurt her to be at odds with her brother, she wasn't sure they were ready to speak yet.

She cleared her throat and held out a hand. "Yes, thank you."

The boy nodded, handed her the roll of parchment. Then he sauntered off, his brown uniform disappearing as he rounded the hall corner.

Lyanna blinked and peered down at the letter. The first thing she noted was the expensive paper—the kind embedded with flecks of silver. From across the room, Wren hopped from the bed and ambled over, expression curious.

"What is it?"

"I don't know."

She traced the wax seal, tilting the roll so the grooves could catch the light. Revealing... a regal-appearing letter D, traced with shimmering powder, with a horizontal V etched within it:

Wren twisted to see, and her eyes widened. "That's Delles' seal."

Delles?

"The—music school?"

"Yes. Go on, open it."

With a furrowed brow, Lyanna slid her finger between the circle of wax and the paper beneath it, pulling gently. What would Delles want with her? She wasn't a musician, nor a dancer.

She unfurled the roll, holding it up so Wren wouldn't need to look over her shoulder.

"To the Lady Lyanna Westfall..." she began, but the next line of script silenced her.

_It has come to our attention here at the Delles Division of Visual Craft that you are a profoundly talented individual in the natural arts. I would like to have you study as my personal apprentice for the duration of the spring. Please respond as soon as you are able._

_Best, Genevieve Beauregarde._

"Genevieve Beauregarde? Who the hell is that?" Lyanna asked, turning to Wren with wide eyes.

"She... she makes all the paintings for the royal family. All those pictures you see in the halls, she's their creator."

Like the rendition of Rhoe and Orlon Galathynius hanging in the throne room. Like that of Aelin and Rowan and their children, fixed above silver braziers in the main hall. And so many more, each glorious, each beautiful, each so lifelike it was almost as if every person in every canvas really was looking down at the observer.

"She wants... me?"

"Gods' ashes. Lyanna, do you know how rare an opportunity like this is? That woman hasn't taken a pupil in years."

"But—how does she know about me?"

Wren shrugged. "You've got connections here. Extremely powerful connections. Maybe someone important weighed in?"

But who?

Aelin appreciated Lyanna's work, but enough to have her best artist take Lyanna as a student? Or perhaps...

Rowan had seen her drawing—before Terence swatted it out of her grasp and told Ardere to destroy it. Had it been him? Had he contacted this Genevieve Beauregarde, asking her to mentor Lyanna?

If that was the case, she wasn't sure she wanted to do it. After all, it would mean she hadn't earned that place under Beauregarde, but was served it on a silver platter. The thought made her grimace.

"I... if this was my aunt's or uncle's idea, I don't think I want to do it."

"Who cares whose idea it was?" Wren gripped Lyanna's shoulders. "This is big. This is once-in-a-lifetime. You have to do it!"

"But don't you understand? I wouldn't be getting this letter because of whatever skill I possess. It would be because I happened to be born into this family. Because of chance. Not because I've truly won the attention of the most gifted artist in Terrasen."

"You don't know that. Maybe your aunt or uncle showed your drawing to her."

"They couldn't have. It was destroyed."

Wren pursed her lips, her eyes narrowing. Lyanna could see her mind circulating, the line of thought whisking through her head at quick speed. "Do you want to ask, in your reply? If it matters to you that much?"

Lyanna's mouth tightened, but she nodded. Wren didn't hesitate in darting to the shelf where all the paints were kept, fishing a sheet of parchment from one of the drawers. She plucked up a nearby pen and strode back to Lyanna, expression full of quiet excitement.

Slowly, Lyanna set the letter on her bed and took the items in her grasp, retrieving a book from her nightstand and smoothing the paper onto it.

How best to begin?

She furrowed her brow and dipped the pen in a pot of ink Wren was quick to provide, holding it over the paper.

_To the Lady Genevieve Beauregarde,_

_Such an offer is eminently generous—_

Another knock resonated through the room, and again, Lyanna's heart strained.

Was it Terence this time?

Carefully, she handed Wren the book and pen, brushing her hair back. Touching her hair calmed her somewhat—the soft, chocolate curls glided through her fingers, like silk against the slightly crooked digits. Crooked for the years she'd spent twirling knives through them, or gripping brushes a little too hard.

"Terence?" she called.

Someone cleared their throat. "No, Lea, it's your father and me. We want to speak with you."

She cringed. She hadn't spoken to her parents much—only a few simple words as they bade her a good day each morning since Terence had hauled her into their chambers and glared at her until she told them about the incident.

"Uh... alright."

The door opened, but didn't creak. It put her on edge.

Her mother and father stood just beyond the threshold, looking beautiful and regal and everything else a lord and his lady should have been. But her mother's eyes were troubled, and her father's were... sad?

"Come in," Lyanna said.

They obeyed, eyeing Wren in silent command as her mother sat on the edge of the bed, her father remaining on his feet with a wide hand on her shoulder. Wren took her leave, sinking into a graceful curtsy before leaving the room. The door clicked shut, and then there was silence.

What in Erilea could this be about?

"At first, we weren't sure we wanted to tell you," Lyanna's mother said. "After your recent behavior, we want to keep you as safe as possible."

"I—" Lyanna began, meaning to apologize profusely. But her father put up a hand, a look on his face that said, just listen.

"During one of her examinations, Aelin made you an offer. To stay in Orynth for a few months, and study at Delles."

Lyanna could only blink. So it had been Aelin. She frowned.

"Perhaps we should have told you sooner," her father continued. "We only wanted to do what was best for our family. We've never been apart before."

"But we can't make your decisions for you," her mother said. "And you'll have to learn to be on your own sooner or later, anyway." If you're going to be Lady of Anielle, she didn't need to add. "So the choice is yours. Stay and find new parts of yourelf doing what you love." A long pause.

"Or come home with us. And you can have an artistic education there, should you wish," her father finished.

Lyanna swallowed, breathing in deep. She hadn't earned it. It wasn't her Genevieve Beauregarde wanted—it was a stronger connection to the crown, a favor done for the queen that she might perhaps call in later.

"No," Lyanna said, shaking her head. "No, I'm going home."

She wasn't angry with Aelin. Not in the slightest; she knew Aelin loved her, was only being kind. But this Beauregarde woman...

She scowled. "Tell Aunt Aelin it's a magnanimous offer, but I respectfully decline."

Her parents' eyebrows rose in surprise, and they shared a fleeting glance.

"Lea," her father said. "This could make you happy."

"You might meet wonderful people. Make lifelong friends. You never know," her mother supplied.

"I have friends," Lyanna muttered. "And I'm already happy. I want to go home. I miss Uncle Dorian. I miss Serene and Filly and Rielle. I... I want to forget about this visit."

Her father tilted his head, eyes searching hers. Then he nodded, pulling her mother up from the bed and tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow. "Whatever you want."

He extended an arm in invitation, and Lyanna didn't falter before striding over and folding herself into it.

Warm. He was so warm. Even if she agreed to stay, how could she bear being apart from this? Her mother wrapped her own arms around Lyanna, stroking her hair gently. It shredded her insides to think about how she'd worried them.

"I love you," she said, kissing both their cheeks. "And I'm sorry for what I did."

Her mother pulled away, golden eyes glowing. "You and Terence are our greatest treasures. We adore you more than anything this world could offer us. And there is nothing we couldn't forgive you for."

Do not cry. Do _not_ cry.

The guilt made her bones cold, and she couldn't help but shed a tear, bowing her head in shame. Her father wiped it away with a knuckle, beaming gently at her.

"We depart tomorrow morning."

They extracted their arms, giving her one last smile, and left.

She didn't hesitate. She marched for the bed—for the letter she'd dropped between her pillows. She swiped it from its rest, making for the unlit hearth on the far side of her room.

It was a minute before flames were licking along the half-charred logs, sending waves of heat in her direction. Without another heartbeat of consideration, she tossed the letter in.

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She was learning about him, just as he was learning about her.

For one, he was the easiest babe she'd had to raise. As difficult as he was to carry, he was making up for it now, as he began sleeping for longer periods of time during the night and readily eating on his regular schedule, surprising Aelin and Rowan both.

He was a newborn still—barely several days old, and already he had the temperament of an older infant. It was both endearing and disconcerting.

Was he growing, maturing too fast? Would her final years as a new mother flit by too quickly? Her last moments with a child this young—were they too short?

Because again, he was learning about her. About himself. About everything. Namely, who she was—his mother, his provider, his protector. He was at home in her arms, finding steadiness in her embrace more than anyone else's. He slept easier with her, was calmer when she pressed him against her.

Aelin tilted her head and blew out a breath, stroking the front portion of blanket that cocooned him. She lay on her side, facing her mate as he lay on his, their son cooing softly between them. She would summon her other children and the Westfalls for dinner in a few minutes. But right now, she wanted to prize this moment with Rowan. When they bore no more of the day's responsibilities, and could rest in each other's presence.

"He's going to look like you," he rumbled, running a tattooed finger through Rhoe's fuzzed head. "I can already see it."

She could, too. Rowan had his twins; their eldest sons each only bore one dissimilarity to him—Rendyll's Ashryver eyes and the smattering of freckles across Reavan's nose. And Aelin had hers. Ava and Rhoe, with their near-identical faces and golden hair.

Tomorrow the festivities would begin—really begin. Orynth had celebrated brightly the night following Rhoe's birth, but it had been a celebration only for the city. Word had traveled far since then. Riders had spread the news across Erilea, overseas, to the eastern and southern continents.

And so the world now knew of the new prince. Tomorrow, Orynth would rejoice in full. Because her children were rays of hope for Terrasen. Her kingdom had suffered, and gravely so. But if she, as its queen, could go on, could heal from the shit-storm of a war that had racked it, then so could her people.

They were young, still. Hadn't yet left their mark on this world. And already, they were so adored.

"Do you think our children are too spoiled?" Aelin asked.

Rowan laughed. "They're royalty. Of course they're too spoiled."

She snorted, rolling her eyes. "I don't think that makes us very good parents."

"You're the queen. You get to make all the rules on good parenting."

She pretended to ponder. "And if I say good parenting is spoiling our children filthy—even more than they already are?"

"Then it shall be so," he answered, and stroked Rhoe's brow. "It doesn't matter how many privileges you give them. They'll be just and kind, brave and strong, simply because they are yours. It's in their blood."

She fought the warmth in her ears. "Och. You and your pretty speeches."

He grinned. "We have a thousand years, Fireheart. Get used to it."

And as he leaned across the space between them to nip at her jaw, she was happy to be reminded that after nearly twenty years of marriage, he still made her heart speed.

When he pulled away, she sighed, dragging a pillow under her head and brushing her cheek against it.

Maybe it was her mate and her son before her, or maybe it was her hatred for goodbyes that made her wish this moment would last forever. It was quiet, it was peaceful. It was home. Two decades after hell, and she would never grow indifferent to this sanctuary.

"We should be going soon," Rowan whispered.

Her lips curled. "We should. But will we?"

"Yes. You'd want one last gathering."

She frowned at last. But she blew out a breath, rolling onto her back. "I hate it when you have a point."

He merely chuckled, lifting himself from their bed and cradling Rhoe to his chest once he was standing. They were a complementary contrast to each other—Rowan's sun-kissed skin against Rhoe's paler Ashryver tone, the bluish tint of Rowan's silver hair to set off Rhoe's gleaming golden.

"Come on, Majesty. Your family awaits."

A few heartbeats passed before she rose, brushing out the folds in her gown. Rowan prowled toward her, offering his free arm. She slid her hand into the crook of his elbow, and she couldn't help but relish in the strength that flowed through his bicep and forearm.

"Let's eat," she said, and together they swept from the room.

They only had a few stops before the dining hall; the Westfalls were likely waiting for them already.

The first was Ava's bedroom. The glow from the braziers cast them in a wash of warm light, shadowing the children's corridor as they walked past. Rowan rapped twice on their daughter's ornate door, the sharp sound bouncing off the walls.

Ava opened up a few seconds later, looking bright-eyed, yet slightly deflated. "Dinner time?"

Rowan nodded. "Come along."

The princess softly smiled and obeyed, stepping out into the hall and swishing her pearlescent dress. She advanced to Aelin's side, the sharpness of her shoes against the floor resounding as she strode.

Rendyll was next. And they were pleasantly surprised to see Reavan laughing happily beside his brother as they sat together at the pianoforte in the center of Rendyll's room. The elder's fingers were dancing over the keys, and he chanted a bawdy song Aelin had no idea where he'd heard. Even at nine—and even singing such a ribald number—his voice was like caramel, melting through the air and enchanting all who listened.

It was almost difficult to break his attention away. But after a few moments, Aelin cleared her throat, grinning. "Touching melody, Ren. I'd ask where you learned it?"

He turned and cackled wildly, grinning back. "Can't say. There would be trouble."

"Trouble for you, or for the person who taught it to you?"

"Both."

She laughed, rolling her eyes.

"Hello, Mama," Reavan piped. "Are we having dinner now?"

"Yes, my sweet. Are you hungry?"

He nodded, hopping down from Rendyll's bench and making his way over. He took Ava's hand and watched as Rendyll slid the cover over the keys, careful as ever, before joining them as well.

They found Amora taking her evening snooze, drowsing lightly against her rocking chair as she lay curled in it, small enough to fit comfortably. Aelin appreciated the sight for a second, solidifying her mental picture, and padded for her youngest daughter.

"Amora," she murmured, laying her fingers on the princess's sweet face. "Amora."

A soft "Mm?" Vivid blue eyes fluttered open, like azure flame in white sand.

"Mm... Mama?"

"Time to eat," Aelin said gently, holding her arms open. Amora climbed right in, unbothered by her disarranged silver hair. She slumped against Aelin's shoulder, too tired to bother with walking.

Aelin straightened, patting down Amora's head and returning to her family. And now complete, now whole, they took their walk down to the dining hall in pleasant silence. Or rather, silent as it could be with Rendyll humming his suggestive song.

As she'd predicted, the Westfalls were waiting in the seats they had occupied during their welcoming dinner, Castoran standing with a hand on the back of Lyanna's chair. Aelin strode to the head of the table, muttering a soft "good evening", careful not to jostle Amora as Rowan pulled out her chair for her to sit. Then he took his own place at her right, their children following suit.

Rendyll tightened his lips, but left his usual spot empty. Ava beamed as she waved Castoran over, sinking gracefully into her seat.

Once they were all seated, the servants posted around the room set to work, filling their goblets with wine and placing hot platters of food before them.

Aelin grimaced.

Not for displeasure, but at the sudden tenderness that filled her heart. Rowan smiled in a way that told her he hadn't had anything to do with it. Chaol and Yrene's expressions said the same.

A lovely cut of fish, caught from the deeper regions of the Florine and seared to perfection, seasoned with dark flakes of pepper and the steaming juice of a lemon. It rested, tempting and mouth-watering, on a bed of plush rice.

It was one of her favorite meals. She eyed the servant who filled her cup, and the girl smiled warmly back, nodding in confirmation.

Since it was difficult to transport this kind of fish from the further parts of the Florine—requiring a few days—she so rarely was able to enjoy this particular meal. But the servants had done it.

The servant girl's eyes flitted to the Westfalls, then back to Aelin. And Aelin raised her brows in understanding.

They knew she hated dinners like these—the ones marking the end of another visit. And her staff was trying to make it better. She sighed and smiled softly back in thanks.

"Farewells are always difficult," Chaol said, and all eyes snapped to him. "This is a somewhat tradition, a last dinner."

"Only if you focus on the negative parts," Yrene replied. "Why don't we start a new tradition?"

"A tradition of?" Ava asked, manicured fingers nimbly snatching up a knife and fork.

"Of..." Yrene considered. "Of listing our favorite things about each visit. And what we look forward to in the next one."

Aelin picked up her utensils and took a bite from her fillet. The flavor washed over her tongue in a fresh tang, and she savored it as Yrene said, "I'll go first."

The lady's eyes drifted to the air in front of her, deliberating. It was a few seconds of silence before she perked, dark lashes fluttering. "There's delivering your last child, of course. But also seeing you treasure him, watching you hold dear to his happiness and his well-being. And I look forward to his Hailing. When we can all be together again." Her eyes sparkled, and she set to work on her meal.

"For me..." Chaol began, sending Aelin a meaningful look. "Old dreams were finally, truly laid to rest. I was reminded that all is as it should be. And I like to think I grew closer—just a little—to my Lea." A soft grin from Lyanna. "I anticipate the years when Rhoe knows his family—really knows them. All of us. From those in the Southern Continent, and those across the eastern sea." Then Chaol too began to eat, and elbowed Terence to continue.

The young lord cleared his throat, taking a sip of wine. "Well... I enjoyed our talks, Ren."

Rendyll pushed his shoulders back and smiled, every inch the charming prince.

"And I liked seeing the city again," Terence went on. "I look forward to bringing Rielle to meet you all. I really think you'd love her."

He spoke kindly, but held himself stiffly, his elbows angled away from the chair on his left.

Lyanna's spot was shadowy, placed in the dim waning light between two braziers. She rested her arms at her sides, not touching her food.

Still, she spoke. "I'd say we did grow closer, Father," she teased, making a face at him. "And I learned, as well. About myself, about... others." A pause. "I look forward to learning more. About all that I can. This family, the world... that's all I want. To keep learning." She prodded at her glass, but did not touch it otherwise.

Ava cleared her throat. "Alright, my turn. I enjoyed... companionship." Castoran's ears turned lavender as several pairs of eyes drifted to him. "And," Ava said, "I liked a certain recent trip to Theralis."

Ah, yes. The trip to visit the Thirteen. Aelin's guards had informed her of it as soon as Ava had left the grounds.

"What I look forward to," the princess piped. "Is... uh... I guess I don't really have things to look forward to. Everything is already perfect."

"Enough out of you," Rendyll interjected, sticking out his tongue. Ava rolled her eyes. "I liked dinner with the Masters of Delles."

"Ren," Ava muttered, "That has nothing to do with the Westfalls visiting."

"Sure it does," He flashed his teeth, small but sharp canines gleaming. "Terence joined us."

Terence nodded in confirmation, smiling back.

Ava huffed. "Whatever. What about you, Father?"

Rowan's lips curled upward. "I don't have a favorite part. They were all special."

Reavan frowned. "That's boring, Papa." A chuckle from Rowan. But the young prince turned to Aelin, pine-green eyes sparking with excitement. "I liked swimming with you, Mama. And I've always wanted a little brother. I can't wait for him to play with me."

Her heart warmed, and she rested her chin against Amora's soft head, which lay against her collarbone. "And you, Castoran?"

He cocked his head, eyeing his plate of food. "I would say... seeing my mother's companions. Learning their names. I'd await hearing of their adventures—from my mother. It's one thing to listen about my father's with them, but she spent the better part of a century among them."

Aelin nodded, and then their gazes—all of them—shifted to her.

"I couldn't say giving birth was any fun. But holding him for the first time made it worth it. And as I grazed the precipice of death, I was greeted by... someone who I've been missing for a long, long time."

Her eyes prickled at the thought, but she continued, "So I too look forward to Rhoe's Hailing. I'm tired of missing people. I want to celebrate. I want our circle to be whole."

She took her glass. "So it shall be. And this time, I'll make sure to keep everyone around for longer than a mere few days."

Her companions laughed as she raised her goblet in toast. "To family."

"To family."

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~ hi, real sorry for the late update. i will try to keep to my 7:15 a.m. schedule lol

~ aelin's bday coming next chapter.

~ don't forget to tell me what you think :)

xo


	12. Mother of Mine

Lyanna makes a realization. | Aelin's birthday arrives.

disclaimer: sarah j. maas owns all (except for the new generation).

another disclaimer: i've included some smut in this chapter, sorry if you're uncomfortable with this kind of content (and sorry if it's maybe, like, tier 2 smut—it's my first time writing it!)

༺═──────────────═༻

Dawn broke, humid and grey, the next morning. It had rained the night before, and Lyanna has spent those dark hours peering up at her canopy, wondering if she'd made the right decision.

What she'd said to her parents had not been a lie; she missed home. This visit was probably the worst she'd ever experienced. Her heart had been broken, she tried to repair it through rage, and she did the most reckless thing she'd ever done in her life.

She stared at her trunk, filled with neatly folded pants and gowns tucked into careful rolls, one arm crossed over her waist and the other supporting her chin. There was something else she wanted to take. Or was there?

The painting she couldn't bring herself to burn. Cloistered away in her closet, inside a heavy coat.

She didn't have to think for long, because a knock beat against her door.

Her parents, probably. She sighed, a soft smile playing on her lips. Across from her, sitting on a tall stool and watching in curiosity, Wren blinked.

"I'll step outside so you won't have to go," Lyanna said, winking.

She approached her door, smoothing out her traveling dress—a comfortable thing made of soft cotton and maroon in color. She pulled on the handle, expecting to see her mother's glowing face, her father's hard-set mouth—

Her lips parted in a slight gape.

"Good morning," he said quietly.

Ardere. Green-brown irises bored into her, and she scowled, slipping out of her bedroom, closing the door behind her. She lifted her chin. "Morning." A cold reply, as she didn't bother with any courtesy.

He flicked a strand of tousled hair out of his face. "I heard you were leaving with the rest of your family."

"Come to celebrate?"

He rolled his eyes. "Why would I? It hardly makes a difference to me whether you are present in this castle or not."

Her scowl deepened. She did her best to turn her nose up at him, narrowing her eyes. "Then have you come to collect my things? You need to wait a few moments. I'm not finished packing."

And he laughed. A merry sound, deep and warm like a spring from the earth. He tipped his head back, baring his sharp canines, his cheeks forming two small craters. It was like a shift in person—one second he was serious as stone, studying her with some Fae intensity she could only try to emulate; the next, it was like blooming light.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "That is for the servants to do."

"Then what? Interested in my friend back there?" She jerked her head towards the door.

Another laugh, but quieter this time.

"Something funny?" she demanded.

He just waved her off, straightening. "No, I've come to ask why you're leaving."

She grimaced. "Because I don't live here? And what does it matter to you, eh? I thought it didn't make a difference to you whether or not I was present."

"It doesn't. But you were made an offer. Why are you not taking it?"

She almost growled. What in hell was he doing? "When we met," she said, her voice hard. "You looked ready to strangle me. And now you come to my door, saying you don't care for anything in regards to me... and yet you want to know why I decided how I did about staying?"

A smirk. "That is correct, yes. But before you point fingers, ask yourself who provoked it all."

She scoffed. "Some gall, you have."

"I should say the same."

Her blood simmered.

"Alright, little bastard."

He reacted, but not as much as she'd hoped. His shoulders only tensed, and his face held to that same easy expression, almost completely unfazed.

"I don't know _why_ you're suddenly curious about the goings-on in my life—"

He rolled his eyes again. "I'm _not_. I just want to know what you could possibly be going home to in Adarlan that is better than an opportunity like this."

"You said it yourself. It's my home. I love Orynth, but Adarlan is _home_. Get it through your thick skull yet?"

"For a highborn, you've got quite a mouth."

"So does my aunt, from what I hear. I don't see you commenting on it."

"Her Majesty doesn't sound off on me whenever she gets the chance."

Lyanna huffed, willing calm into her lungs, into her extremities. "Look, you got what you came for. Could I just be left alone? Please?"

Without waiting for a response, she turned her back on him, reaching for the handle—

"It was idiotic to jump onto that canopy."

She froze, ready to whirl and jab a finger in his face. But before she could do so, he said, "The result, however, spoke for itself."

Lyanna closed her eyes, still facing away. "What does it matter? I'm sure you had a lovely time burning it."

"I didn't burn it. I gave it to Genevieve Beauregarde."

Her lids snapped open. And just then, she did spin, looking at him with every ounce of accusation she could muster.

_He_ gave it to her? It wasn't Rowan, nor Aelin, but _him_?

"Why in shit's name would you do that." Not a question.

"As a guard in high position, I have connections in the city. And I happened to hear Lady Beauregarde was searching for an apprentice. So I personally delivered your drawing, and she contacted me a few days later saying she would like _you_ to be said apprentice. I thought you'd take the offer, but then I got word the Westfalls were departing today. _All_ of the Westfalls."

Lyanna stared. "That—that doesn't answer my question."

"Yes it does."

"People like you don't just do things like this. What are you getting out of it?"

Then she could see it. The little crack in his mask of composure. His eyes sparked with anger, and his nostrils flared delicately. But he allowed nothing else. He didn't even ball his fists. He kept one hand on the pommel of his sword, the other casually toying with a silver coin at his side. If she didn't know better, she'd have said he was relaxed.

But he was a guard. He could never be relaxed.

"Don't presume to know what kind of person I am," he said quietly. "And trust me, I get nothing out of it."

"And like I said before, you didn't answer my question."

He stopped spinning the coin. And as he took a breath, everything else seemed to still—as if he world paused to breathe with him. Those hazel eyes narrowed, scanning her expression.

It was strange, being studied that way. But she wasn't going to run. She held her ground, furrowing her brow. Deliberately inhaled out of time with him. Set her mouth into a hard line.

"I did it because I know perfection when I see it."

Her skin crawled. But... not unpleasantly.

This moment had crept up on her. She'd been ready to disfavor him more, ready to have another reason to feel an aversion towards him. But... what was this? What was _that_, lining his features? Was that... deliberation? Sincerity?

She shook her head abruptly, clearing the sudden, unwelcome fog clouding her senses. "I—I thought it was my aunt or uncle who'd asked Beauregarde to take me as a pupil. I thought she wanted to strengthen her bond with the crown."

"She's already got a good bond with the royal family. She makes all their art."

"But Aelin said she would ask—"

"Her Majesty didn't. And she wouldn't have, not unless your parents gave her the go-ahead."

She could only blink, staring at her shoes.

"Does this affect your decision at all?"

"Shut up and let me think."

It hadn't been Aelin. It hadn't been Aelin.

It had been _her_. Lyanna Westfall, through her talent, had actually, truly, fairly earned this. Genevieve wanted _her_.

_Would_ it change her decision? She was ready to return home. She was ready to end this overall shit trip and return to the comforts of Westfall Manor. But...

But she'd been in that same place all her life. In that same beautiful bedroom, wearing gown after lovely gown. Receiving no guidance, having no friends like herself... never moving forward.

Was it time to exchange those gowns for a smock?

"Let me think," she said again, and left him.

Wren was waiting inside, her face filled with interest. "Was that the high guard?" A cool grin. "I've seen him around. A real looker, he is."

"Not the point," Lyanna muttered, waving her friend off.

Think, think, think. She had about a quarter of an hour to choose. Home or something new? She hadn't been lying about missing Rielle and Serene and Filly. But she couldn't deny... was it a yearning in her chest? It was something she'd felt before—when she longed for a certain someone to be beside her. This was a want for... satiation. A need to create and have her work be critiqued properly and not just praised. A desire to have a mentor to please.

For a long time, her father had been that mentor. When he'd taught her not to paint the world with paint and brushes, but with blood and steel. But he could only satisfy half of her—the other half thirsted to _make_. To think up ridiculous and wonderful things, and swirl them to life on a blank canvas for all the world to see.

She'd never done anything like this before. And yet, she told her parents she would go...

She left Wren to her pondering, stalking out the door, her fingers nimbly snatching up a pen from the shelf by the frame. Sweeping from the room, she twirled the pen in her fingers.

Her parents' chambers were only a few paces away. A right turn down, just beyond the corner—

"Och!"

She ran smack into a hard chest, tall and imposing. But before she could scowl as she righted herself, before she could bite out a remark or a warning, his face quieted her.

Her mouth fell open.

"I—Terence."

He looked more tired than she'd ever seen him—even after long nights with Rielle. Deep shadows hung from under his eyes, and she could have sworn his lips were thinner. The glow to his smoldering eyes was dampened, like embers of a hearth stamped out under an unforgiving boot.

He ran a hand through knotted caramel hair. "Lea."

"What..." She cleared her throat, taking in the direction he'd been walking. Hers was the only room south of this intersection. Had he been on his way to see her? "Is it time to leave?"

_Not yet,_ her heart pleaded.

"No, I—" he paused, swallowing. "I just wanted... we've never fought like this before. I wanted you to know..." A few bleary blinks. "It's tearing me apart."

Days. They hadn't spoken in days. Relief bled through her veins, but so did... something else. Something hot and driving—anger?

"I didn't want to get in that carriage without having fixed things first," Terence continued. "For the sake of not making everyone else uncomfortable." A nervous pause. "And for the sake of you and me. This isn't good for us, Lea. I just want to make it right again."

Her stomach churned.

"I understand if you're pissed at me. I treated you... badly. In front of Uncle Rowan and that guard." He rubbed at the nape of his neck. "You just made me more afraid than I'd ever been. I guess it manifested itself in a poor way. I'm sorry."

Still, she said nothing.

"You have to understand," he went on. "You're my baby sister, Lyanna. All my life, I've just wanted to protect you. But when _you're_ the danger?" He chuckled darkly. "I don't know what happened. Something snapped. I wanted to kick your ass, but also never let you out of my sight again."

She could have said something more appropriate. Really, _anything_ else would have been more appropriate. But she spoke before any sane thought bothered to rummage through her head. "You might know your way with a sword, but you'll never be able to kick my ass."

This time he laughed—really laughed. Thickly, with tears threatening to spill. And something inside her cracked, too. Because Terence never cried. To see him do so was such a sweet allowance. If he let you see him weep, he trusted you wholeheartedly.

He opened his arms, and she leapt into them, forcefully shoving any disdain away. Being angry would solve nothing.

His smell—like eucalyptus and honey—crawled into her nostrils, and she herself almost cried as she realized how much she'd missed it.

She told him so.

"It's killing me, too. I missed you."

Another thick laugh, though a bit quieter this time. And they stood there, arms wrapped around each other, both happy to be on these terms again.

But another thought suddenly tugged at her.

She frowned and pulled away, treading carefully.

"Uh... Terence? I think I... have something to tell you."

༺═──────────────═༻

As if the sky was weeping, it began to rain as Chaol, Yrene, Terence, and Castoran stood before the main doors, looking somber but at peace.

Aelin watched as her eldest held Castoran in a firm embrace, saying nothing, her small arms conveying everything. She watched as Lyanna gently swayed as she carried Reavan, eyes watery but cheeks dry. And she watched as Terence gifted Rendyll a thin envelope, whispering in his ear.

Amora rested her head in the hollow of Aelin's shoulder, not bothering with any goodbyes. She knew they would come again soon. Rhoe dozed, cradled gently by Rowan. Their family, also at peace.

Because this was something of an end to this era. One of creation and restoration, one of rebuilding and healing. Now was the time for learning. Growing and improving. Teaching and progressing.

Yrene approached, shining even in the grey weather. Her golden eyes blinked, wiping away glossy tears before they had a chance to fall. But her freckled nose glowed pink, betraying her mask of complete calm. She gave a muted smile. "It's been an honor to deliver your children."

"And I could ask for no better a healer."

They embraced, and like always, Yrene's touch was like fresh water on a hot summer's day. For the few days she had the privilege of feeling it, Aelin knew she'd long for it.

Chaol padded up to them, having just strapped his chair to their carriage. Aelin loosed an arm from around Yrene's neck, and Chaol didn't hesitate to walk into it. They three held each other that way, and Aelin had to squeeze her eyes shut to stamp out any tears of her own.

Because this was not a time for sorrow. This was a time for rejoicing—the places they were meant to be beckoned. Chaol's place was at Dorian's side, Yrene's in the Torre of the North.

And she would see them again.

She _would_ see them again.

Crushing them to her one last time, she sighed and retracted her arms, Rowan placing a hand on her shoulder from behind.

"Thank you," he said to them, gesturing to their newest son.

He carefully embraced them as well, though he did a better job of holding back his emotions. "Thank you for our children. Thank you for your comfort. Thank you."

He looked at each of their children's beautiful faces, no doubt seeing bits of himself in them. And they all looked back—even Amora raised her head to smile at him.

"Three months," Chaol said, his lips curved up. "We'll be back in three months."

Lyanna stepped forward then, eyes still wet. She'd let go of Reavan, who was now standing beside his older brother and watching them. "Say hello to Uncle Dorian for me," she muttered. "Tell him I miss him. And my friends, please."

Her family flocked around her, huddled in some crowded but sweet circle.

To be apart from any of her children… Aelin's heart ached just thinking about it. Lyanna held to her family tightly, burrowing her face in her father's shoulder. "I'm going to miss you, Papa."

He choked out a laugh, eyes red-lined as they were. "Papa?"

His daughter only shrugged, kissing his cheek before turning to Yrene.

"Don't eat too many honeyed treats without me."

"Wouldn't dream of it," the healer said, touching her forehead to Lyanna's.

It was a few moments before they pulled away. And then all that was left—

Terence roughly grabbed his sister's shoulders, crushing her to his chest. He didn't bother drying his tears. "Damn you for leaving me with the bore." He jerked his chin at Castoran, and the young prince cackled wildly.

Lyanna grinned. "Damn you for not staying with me."

"You're the talented one here, Lea. I'm afraid there's so much healing magic in this place, I'm not really useful."

"You could teach the children. I'm sure the schools wouldn't mind another helping hand."

Terence shook his head, but smiled. "Enjoy this. Find yourself. We'll wait for as long as that takes you."

And the last embrace between any of them broke as Terence moved to stand beside their parents, a steady solace, tall and well-built as his father, golden like his mother.

Castoran shuffled forth to take Aelin's hand and brushed his lips against her knuckles. "I'll let my family know you send your regards."

"And tell them I'll fry them if they don't make it to Rhoe's Hailing," she teased.

The boy beamed. "Will do, Majesty."

A nod toward Rowan. "Maybe I'll bring a wyvern when I return. And perhaps we could go for a flight."

Her mate flashed his teeth. "A race, you mean."

Castoran's eyes glittered. "Only if you're up for it."

Rowan smirked. "I'm up for it."

The prince laughed, bright and clear. Then he retreated to Chaol's side, his steps silent.

The moments following bled together. The Westfalls waved goodbye one last time as they herded out the door. They draped cloaks over themselves so as to stay dry from the rain. They stepped into their carriage.

They pulled out of the castle grounds.

Something about this was always familiar. Like standing on the prow of a ship, staring toward a brown-eyed man whose heart had been left on that dock until the stars winked at her from above. But not nearly as soul-breaking.

This was right. This was the world's perfect balance.

She was home. They were going home.

There was something new. Lyanna had remained. And they had another son.

All was right.

༺═──────────────═༻

It seemed the cosmos were inclined to commemorate the Queen of Terrasen, because the night sky seemed especially beautiful on the eve of Aelin's birthday.

It came a week and a half after the Westfalls had departed, and Kingsflame bloomed like wildfire across the kingdom, extending well past the fields surrounding Orynth. Rowan, as he did every year, had arisen an hour earlier to fly out and retrieve what he deemed the loveliest blossoms for her.

He was back before she'd woken, and arranged them carefully in a crystal vase, placing it silently on her nightstand. Usually, he'd kiss her awake before proceeding to more _explicit_ activities until their respective responsibilities demanded attention too greedily for them to ignore.

Of course, said responsibilities were never more demanding than his and his mate's desire for each other, so they often _did _go ignored until the last possible moment.

But none of their children had been born so close to Aelin's own birthday. And she hadn't yet given him any confirmation she was ready to be intimate that way again. So he kept his distance, opting to only lie beside her and simply wait for her to wake instead.

Several minutes passed before she finally breathed deeply, finding her way back to consciousness. Her Ashryver eyes blinked blearily at him, and a tired smile curved her lips.

"Orynth will run out of wine today," he whispered. "Such will be the festivities."

"Orynth will never run out of wine."

"The people have been celebrating for several days. Plus today? We might have to open the palace stores to the public."

She laughed, running a hand through his hair. "Then they'll expect it next year. We won't get any sleep."

He couldn't help himself. "You don't get much sleep on your birthday, anyway." He bared his teeth, leaning forward with the speed of an adder and pressing a fleeting kiss to her nose.

Another laugh. "Och, you," she teased, reaching out and grazing her nails against his cheek. "How long have you been awake?"

"Only long enough to get you those." He nodded to the flowers so carefully arranged beside her head, and she turned, grinning as she looked upon them.

"Did you go far?"

He felt the side of his mouth quirk up, and he flicked her nose. "Perhaps. Perhaps not."

A roll of her eyes. "Fine. Don't tell me. How about you fetch me some breakfast, then?"

"Is that a request or an order?"

"Does it matter?" she asked, lifting a brow. "You're still going to do it."

He grinned wickedly, planting another kiss on her cheek and lifting himself from their bed, throwing on a cloak to cover his sleep clothes and shoving his feet into soft boots. Then he strolled from the room, and set off for the kitchens.

He returned half an hour later, and he found her still lazing, the silken sheets tangled between her legs. A cat's smile played at her lips as she watched him stride over, eyes drifting to the silver platter balanced in his right hand. "You wanted boiled lampreys, correct?" he said.

She made a show of gagging, but sniffed the air and beamed.

"What is... is that tea?"

"Not tea," he corrected. "It's something Fenrys sent from the east. They call it _zatva_. An apology for not being here, I suppose." It was a blood-orange, fermented drink, mild enough for breakfast.

"Hm," Aelin mused, and took the platter from him.

She ate quickly, scarfing down her slices of rich bread and sweetened porridge, and downing the goblet of _zatva_ with delight. Only few minutes later was she delicately wiping the edges of her mouth and setting the platter beside the vase on her end table.

"Thank you for the flowers," she said.

"But not for the food?" He feigned disappointment. She only winked.

Then she rose, righting her nightgown, which had shifted crookedly across her chest as she'd slept. The movement pushed up a breast, and he could hardly stop his mouth from salivating. But he forced his mind on another course as he himself rose from his perch beside her.

They readied themselves together in the washroom. Aelin took a swift bath while he rinsed his face and cleaned his teeth, pulling on his most practical suit of kingly garb, as they would make an appearance in the city today. Such was his plan.

Aelin decorated herself in a moss green dress that accented her collarbones, brushing a shimmering dust across her bare skin—a glittery gold to match her kingsflame crown.

And once they were both finished, when they _looked_ the part of royals, they stepped back into their suite.

Their son was awake—Rowan could tell by the slight shallowness to his breathing, the more uneven patterns of inhaling. Aelin heard as well; she paced to his crib, situated in a quiet corner of their room, and lifted him from the mount of soft cloths they'd draped over his mattress.

A soft coo. His mate smiled brightly. "Good morning, my sweet."

Rowan rested a hand on her waist, slim and muscled again. She leaned against him, sighing.

He had to grin, whispering beside her ear. "You'll get your surprise. Then I'll wish you a happy birthday, Fireheart."

He practically felt her rolling her eyes. Birthdays didn't quite matter for either of them; she still looked nineteen, he looked as he had the day they'd met.

Still, Aelin deserved the world and more.

"Buzzard," she mumbled, and motioned for them to exit the room.

The day passed in a steady rhythm. Their children each gave her gifts. Ava had constructed a lovely wristlet of ice so clear, it looked like glass, and that did not freeze Aelin's skin upon contact. Their eldest princess then asked to braid Aelin's hair, which she did beautifully; the kingsflame crown now sat on regal golden plaits.

Rendyll invited a few castle staff members to join him in song, as he sat at the pianoforte and danced his fingers across the keys. It was a joyous song, rare but not original. Even so, it was wonderfully done—Rendyll's voice and swift fingers would carry him far in the world of auditory arts.

Reavan created something they hadn't yet envisioned—their family, but older. When all five children were past the Settling, and they were each full-grown Fae, part of the court that changed the world. At the bottom of his semi-lifelike rendition was a personal note: _To an eternity together. Happy birthday, Mama. _No doubt he'd asked for help with spelling _eternity_, but it was moving all the same.

Aelin simply swept him up and littered kisses all over his face.

Amora was too young to make anything, but she leaped into Aelin's arms as soon as they entered the young princess's chambers. And it might not have been much to another, but Aelin seemed to regard it as one of the most precious gifts in all the worlds.

And as she walked through her hallways, servants bowed deeper, and smiled brightly as they did so. Guards held themselves with complete and utter respect as she passed—even more than they usually did. She even received letters, some of which she allowed Rowan to read.

From Nesryn Faliq:

_Queen of Terrasen,_

_You're one of my dearest friends, Aelin. Even if it may not have started that way._

Aelin laughed then, remembering the way she'd held a knife to Nesryn's throat in the sewers of Rifthold.

_Keep being that swaggering assassin-turned-queen I met all those years ago. The world still needs some of that. _

_Sartaq and I send our nameday wishes. As do Izel, Safi, Tumira, and Ansaq. They're excited for your new son's Hailing. Congratulations, by the way._

_We hope fate grants you every joy._

_\- Nesryn_

Another came from Ansel of Briarcliff:

_Hello, bitch._

_Our trade agreements have been stellar for both our economies, wouldn't you say?_

_Happy birthday._

_\- Queen of the Wastes, Ansel of Briarcliff_

And Dorian:

_To the girl that no one simply deals with, but can only survive._

_Thank you for watching my son. He'll be home soon to tell me about the birth of yours. We're a long way from Endovier, eh? Here's to the hope we go farther yet._

_Also, you'd better be taking good care of Fleetfoot's pups I hear you have roaming your castle grounds._

_I love you. Happy birthday._

_\- His Magnanimous Holiness, your friend, Dorian._

All short, all sweet, all greatly appreciated.

The servants made Aelin's absolute favorite meal—one that even triumphed over that fish they'd served at the farewell dinner.

A thick, creamy soup, complete with golden rolls of bread, a fresh bowl of greens, and fine wine to wash it down. Aelin devoured everything, to the last crumb from the roll and the last spoonful of soup. Rowan watched, somewhat transfixed, as she licked the butter from the rolls off her fingers.

That had only been lunch, though. He was hoping her dinner would be even better.

His plan began in the late evening, with an open carriage waiting at the foot of the steps leading to the main entrance to the castle. Their family—Lyanna included—descended gracefully, guards lining the edges of the raised path. Aelin gestured for their children to climb in first, before following herself—Rhoe neatly wrapped to her chest, and Rowan being the last to settle in his place beside her.

The driver snapped the reins, and they rolled away and out of the grounds.

Orynth was waiting as soon as they swept past the castle gates. The gasp that escaped his wife silenced all, as the petals of wildflowers that covered the main road stretched on until its end at one of the city battlements.

There was only quiet.

For eternity, for seconds.

He blinked in surprise himself—this, he had not asked them to do.

Had not asked them to begin the chant that steadily poured from the lips of each spectator. To hear it nearly made his eyes dampen. Across from him, their children gaped in awe and admiration, to the queen who Orynth's people honored on her day:

_Peace-maker_, some shouted.

_Light-bringer_, others joined.

_Defender. Restorer. Protector._

Again and again. _Protector. Protector._

It moved Aelin so, she stood as the carriage pressed on, wheeling over the wildflower petals. With a few waves of her hands, her crown suddenly glowed on her head, and fiery ribbons like wreaths of laurel encircled on the brow of each person they passed. A lioness promising sanctuary, promising prosperity.

Their journey continued this way. The citizens' coronets faded as soon as they were out of a ten-meter radius from Aelin, but hers burned bright and blazing, seemingly becoming stronger as they grew closer and closer to their destination.

Like a dream, like a trance, the carriage toured on through the smooth cobblestone road, and it seemed every male, female, and child residing in the city had turned out for Aelin. There was not one person whose lips did not curl into a smile as they passed, as she allowed her glorious flame to touch each head.

Too soon they arrived. At the very first gift he'd given her since she began her reign.

Her head swerved to look at him, perfect brows raised. "The theater?"

He grinned. "You love the theater."

"Did you do something new to it?"

He clicked his tongue. "You said you wanted a surprise. Now let me surprise you."

She shook her head and smirked, but said nothing else. He prayed to whatever was left of the gods that she liked it.

She would, he assured himself. He knew his wife, his mate, his queen. Knew her better than anybody else.

So he stepped down from his seat, and offered his hand to help her descend. Her hand was warm as she placed it in his, and he smiled softly at her before assisting their children.

As he'd ordered, more guards lined the entrance to the theater. They stood tall in their crisp, deep green uniforms, stone faced as Aelin took Ava and Amora by their hands and led them up towards the entrance. Rowan trailed behind with the boys and Lyanna in tow, beaming at the still-gathered people watching them from the sidelines of the main road.

The wide iron doors opened without a moment's hesitation, and their family was ushered in by the theater's workers. They were automatically led through one of the more opulent halls—which was saying something, considering the whole damn building was opulent enough to rival a palace. At last, they reached the entrance to the best box, and the staff quickly unlocked the silver-speckled door to let them inside.

The children knew how to behave in these situations. They took their respective places beside the two larger chairs at the very left of the box, and grinned at the mass gathered below.

Such time and concentration, this had taken. Inviting the leaders in each industry presiding in Orynth. A leading merchant in the textile trade, a woman who ran each of the banks, the like.

"The Royal family is here," he heard, and his eyes snapped to a pair of young girls, about ten years of age and staring at them from the ground-level seats. He glanced at his side to catch Rendyll blinking back.

A chuckle escaped him, but he didn't have time to comment, as Aelin's arrival would call for production of the title to begin.

And begin it did—immediately, as soon as she assumed a comfortable position.

First the lights were dimmed around the whole of the giant chamber. They winked away, and seconds later the rich curtains—colored a green so dark it was nearly black—parted. He'd planned it to be so, but still; Rowan was impressed with the briskness of it all. In her city, Aelin would not be kept waiting.

He hoped to whatever he could—the Afterworld, the gods' ashes, that all this meticulous preparation would be worth it.

The room became pitch black, the only visible object being a single candle near the middle of the stage. He felt a slender hand slide into his, and he leaned in a whispered, "I'm slightly terrified you won't enjoy this."

She chuckled, low and almost silent. "More than anything, I'm curious to see what you've devised."

And the first note echoed through the grand room. Familiar and beautiful, set in the bass clef of musical level. The note anyone would know. It was the first one to comprise the Song of Terrasen. As it faded into silence, a circle of light appeared on the stage, illuminating a young girl with golden hair, albeit more honey-toned than his wife's.

Still, Aelin's breath caught.

The girl, with feet clad in special shoes, lay on the polished wooden floor, her nightgown torn at the seams.

And so the dance began.

༺═──────────────═༻

A girl, bending through the air with the grace of a million blades of grass pulled gently by a high wind, cutting and leaping and bounding, landing on a single foot, spinning on her toes; she was Fae, but her elegance soared beyond any natural or inborn ability. She was a prodigy, some outrageously gifted youth that Delles undoubtedly took extreme pride in. Unnamed to most. And yet... the world knew what she was called.

She was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius. And she was not afraid.

It was a storm, it was a riot, it was the most magnificent thing she'd ever seen. It was _hers._ Aelin never been more mesmerized as the girl leaped this way and that, as she fought foe after foe, as she bent and twisted and transformed her body into pure liquid, into pure air, into pure _light_.

There were no words for it. Like when Rowan had sworn the blood oath twenty years ago. Like when they'd made love on the sands of Skull's Bay. There were no words. Not in any language, not in any world.

She couldn't peel her gaze away. For those hours she watched with her family, the colors of the dance melded with the turquoise-and-gold of her eyes, and through the massive pane of glass that spanned the chamber in place of a ceiling, letting in moonlight from the now-dark night sky, she could have sworn the stars winked in time with the musical rhythm—as if they were watching as well.

It was her story. From the moment she was thrust into the frigid Florine as a child, to her ascension to the throne…

A shortened version, but a meaningful one all the same.

Because it hid the most intimate parts of herself, and yet made them shine before the multitude that beheld this wonder.

And meaningful, because of the song.

Something in between the Song of Terrasen, the tune she'd once played for her mate in the then-abandoned theater in Rifthold, and a new chime, a thing of ringing beauty and brightness.

Then the girl, just as she bounded to the center, where a disk of light awaited her presence, opened her mouth.

And out poured—

_To our queen, to our mother such hard hearts revere,_

_Eternal shall be her flame._

_Borne of sweet soul within, the quick wit does endear,_

_By her sword, so vanquished is pain._

_Never our home knows greater peace, _

_and still does it prosper beyond._

_Beyond great Orlon, beyond that of Rhys._

_Chanted always shall be her song._

_Strong mother, sweet mother, hear your children pray._

_Until Faded, we harken your name._

_And once you depart, and complete your way,_

_Still shall we look to your flame._

_Be adored, mother of mine._

_Be loved, goddess of mine._

_Be adored, mother of mine._

_Be loved, goddess of mine._

The girl's voice was like velvet, cascading over each person in the chamber, caramel-smooth notes echoing as nothing Aelin had ever heard. A song like golden rays of sun in harsh winter, like sight to a blind man, like holding your squalling, pink firstborn, like honeyed bread to the starved. A song to honor her.

Her cheeks were wet, though she didn't remember any tears falling. It was something she never realized she wanted, something she'd never have thought to ask for. And it was hers. It was _hers_. Here, in a place like another, where the first blossoms of love began to bloom between her and her mate.

She spared a glance to Rowan, who stared in awe, his own cheeks damp. Then to her children, who looked the same. Even Lyanna's eyes appeared silver-lined.

Because there had never been anything more beautiful. The girl's intoxicating voice, together with the myriad of instruments below the stage... Nothing short of enchanting. Nothing less than bewitching.

Her very own dance. Her story, immortalized.

That was the gift; Rowan had given her immortality. Past the Fading. Past death. Now she was truly everlasting.

Then it was over all too soon.

༺═──────────────═༻

She'd ridden back to the castle in a daze. Then she'd tucked her children into each of their chambers, including Rhoe, mind foggy and eyes somewhat bleary. And she'd made her way to the royal suite in the same condition.

Aelin was stunned. Stunned and astounded and amazed and overwhelmed. It was all she could do to press her back against the wall, breathing in deep the scent of home, of the burning braziers illuminating the room, of the bed, suddenly thick with the ghost of past nights. Nights when Rowan had driven her out of her mind. When he tasted every inch of her. When he'd become the world and nothing else mattered except for him and the sounds that escaped them both.

She stared at that bed, head spinning, spinning, spinning. Heart galloping. Mind resolving.

Because tonight wasn't like those other nights. Tonight was something new, something not yet experienced, something to set into motion this new era. And a perfect end for the old one.

The minutes passed and she stayed rooted. Breathing and meditating, preparing herself. Flexing her fingers and toes. Willing calm into her chest.

The door opened just as she closed her eyes, palms flat on the wall behind her, the music from tonight's dance still echoing in her skull.

"The children wish you a happy birthday again," Rowan chuckled, shrugging off the cloak covering the back of his fine clothes. "I think they're more excited about it than you are."

She said nothing, her chest rising and falling with her unsteady breaths.

Rowan's brow furrowed, and he studied her, lower lip tightening in a gesture she'd seen on Rendyll and Amora. "Aelin?"

Still, she kept quiet.

_Fireheart?_

She blinked at him. _How did you do it?_

Then a smile bloomed on his mouth, eyes gazing at her with such adoration it was a wonder her knees didn't buckle on the spot.

This was love. True and tried, lasting throughout the years and still as fresh and inordinate as the day they'd wed. Still able to make her heart skip, make her cheeks flush. Especially as he continued in their unspoken communication: _I wanted Terrasen to see you how I do. You are... a goddess to me._

The thought sent Aelin's toes curling. Her core turned suddenly molten.

_Are the children asleep?_

_Dead asleep._

She took a slow step towards him, sure he could scent the want that made her skin abuzz, that had her dragging her tongue along the swell of her bottom lip. The flare in his pine-green eyes told her as much, and his fingers twitched at his sides.

But he didn't move. Letting her come to him. Pouring onto her a sweetness and consideration few could ever possess. Like he had when she'd been freed from Maeve's clutches. Like he had every time they'd had a child.

There was no more children to be had now. No hindrance, no reason to hold back.

_No holding back._

He only blinked, breaths slow, deliberate.

_You say I'm your goddess?_

_The most astounding to have ever existed, _he answered.

Just a few moments. Just a few, to savor him standing there, glimmering lust evident in his wide eyes, his hard mouth. To prize the moonlight streaming in through their windows. To appreciate this beautiful, beautiful dress, which she was about to have him ruin.

She closed her eyes as the moments passed, smiling as she smelled the arousal on him, too.

Her moments were up. And she opened her mouth.

"Then worship."

Rowan growled and surged forward, reaching her in half a second and crushing his lips to hers. Nothing like the tender, soft kisses they had shared over the past weeks. Something between animalistic and _starving_. Absolutely starving. Like she was his prey and he was hers and the need burning them both was enough to consume entire realms.

She was ready. She was healed. He'd been patient. He'd been understanding.

The force of him had her against the wall again, clawing at his shoulders and moaning as that damned spot between her legs flared.

Rowan pulled away sharply, the smack of their mouths echoing in their grand chamber. "I will never tire of this."

She didn't deign to reply. Only snatched up his hands and placed them roughly on the neckline of her dress.

"Get me out of this thing before I lose my mind."

He had the gall to laugh, the sound rough and gravelly in his throat. "It's rather lovely."

A soft stroke to the front of his pants made him rethink. In one swift movement, he tore the bust clean in half, followed by the rest of the torso down to her waist, and unceremoniously hefted her out of the bodice.

Being in his arms like this again felt so impossibly good. Aelin wrapped her legs around his waist, lips roving about his throat, his shoulders. She relished in feeling the two slivers of raised flesh on her tongue—those scars of her own making, those teeth marks of loving declaration.

_Mine._

As if reading her thoughts, Rowan carried her to their bed, setting her down gently as he repeated: "Mine."

The bones, the flesh, the soul. Lips and blood and hands. Let him taste them again.

She still wore a satin slip, her underclothes clinging to her underneath, and she quickly shimmied out of all before propping herself up on her elbows, brows raised. It didn't take him long to understand, as he deftly shrugged out of his own clothes, until he was as bare as she.

And like that first night with him in Skulls Bay, her mouth went dry. Because she never really could drink in her fill of the sight of him. Even their thousand years was not enough to do so. Still, she dared not tear her eyes away until he was upon her, hand reaching out with a gentleness to rival that of moonlit clouds and soft winds.

When he placed his broad palm flat against her abdomen, gaze filled with such admiration and devotion, she couldn't help the prickling in her eyes.

A sweet, sweet second. She appreciated it while it lasted.

It was not the time for slow, timid lovemaking. It was time to rattle the stars.

They both knew it. Because the next, Rowan nudged her thigh, and at her single nod, thrust into her with enough force to shake the bed frame.

And the _sensation_—of him inside her, of his body, bare, hot and smooth on hers. By the gods' damned ashes, she'd _missed_ it.

Rowan melded his mouth roughly with hers, groaning as she dragged her canines across his bottom lip, as she fisted his hair in both hands and pulled him flush against her. By the second, her insides were winding tighter and tighter, begging to be pulled loose and free like a blade in a sheath, like a string in a spool. Like scalding magma beneath a mountain.

Aelin let her magic do as it wished. Let it run wild inside their chamber, let an unyielding shield form against the walls. Keeping everything that wasn't Rowan, wasn't the two of them, wasn't his grunts and her gasps out.

Heat blazed along her spine as he began to roll his hips into hers. Such fluttering, wonderful heat... her lips parted to let out a whimper.

There was both sound and silence. Nothing but the night, Orynth's distant cheers of celebration a whisper from outside her shield. And nothing but the steady, drumming slap of his skin batting against her with each deep thrust. Faster and faster they came, until she was moaning his name with each beat, her own hips grinding into his.

She felt as if she could spend forever this way. Or perhaps there was more.

Aelin was just feeling the first prickles of release when Rowan snarled softly and stopped, and it took almost everything from her not to burst into flames.

She was just about to protest when he roughly barked, "Turn over."

One thing about being queen she quite enjoyed: giving orders. Not in nearly two decades had anyone dared to do so to her. Had it been anyone else, she didn't know what she would have done. Probably burn their sorry ass to oblivion.

But as he said it, as the sweat on his brow shone in the silver-gold light, something inside her twisted and snapped.

She did as told.

They'd never done it this way. With her ankles resting on his shoulders, yes. Against the wall. Yes. On the desk and in the bath and in his office chair. Yes, yes, yes.

To hand over control, to become so vulnerable...

Something she hadn't been in a long, long time.

Aelin slid over against the silk sheets, which felt like heaven on her bare chest. She didn't bother to rein in her moan as Rowan stroked her backside. As he reached under and dipped two fingers inside her. As he hefted her up on her hands and knees, and used his ice-kissed wind to toy with her breasts.

Oh, rutting gods.

"Damn you," she hissed, biting down hard on her lip when his hand picked up speed.

He only laughed harshly, and pumped faster.

Just like that—Aelin was shoved over the edge she'd been on the brink of earlier, sweet burning release making waves across the whole of her body, down to the very tips of her extremities. The gasp that escaped her might have been mortifying, but she was far too busy focusing on his hands—those rutting hands—to give a shit.

Then those hands retracted themselves. For a fraction of a second, she was alone, without his touch or his warmth. But he soon settled his palms on her hips, and she closed her eyes in anticipation, for—

"_Shit._"

Rowan slammed himself into her, and perhaps it was this new angle, or perhaps it was his hoarse cry that seemed to shake the furniture, but as he slid out and filled her again, she stuffed the corner of her pillow into her mouth and cursed colorfully.

It was him and his pine-green eyes, his grip on her waist both gentle and brutal, pushing and pulling her, bending her so completely to his will—

Like baring her throat for him, or letting him see behind the cracks in her mask.

It was Rowan. Her mate, her husband, her consort. Her first blood-sworn, her match, her tether to the earth and her savior. While she was protector to her kingdom, to her children, to her ideals and her laws and her way of life...

He was hers.

She knew him. Knew the tell he gave when he was mere seconds from release: the keening groan, the upturned brows, the clawed hands. Knew there was one more thing he'd love.

So she let him continue this way. Then a second wave crashed over her and it was all she could do not rip their luxurious sheets to shreds with her fingernails. When it was suddenly too much and all the same not enough.

Aelin flipped swiftly and shoved him away, hard enough to make him stagger off the bed. She might have smiled at the mix of emotions clouding his eyes—confusion, or pure, animalistic salicity. But she hopped off the bed quick enough to wipe any bewilderment away.

He backed against the wall, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. She followed him, until their lips and tongues were caressing each other, and the mass of his tattooed body seemed to swallow hers.

Then she dropped to her knees.

"Aelin, I—_agh_."

In an instant, he was buried in her mouth, her palms resting on the backs of his thighs.

"_Aelin,_" he said again, and the hands balled at his sides twitched. She hummed a quiet laugh against him, taking his fists and setting them in her hair. His fingers complied immediately, winding themselves into the smooth golden strands, his grip sure and firm.

She'd had her climax. He would get his, as lewd as she knew to be.

And as Rowan's rasping moans filled their chamber, as he pushed and pulled her by her hair, as he spilled himself, hot and thick on her tongue...

_To the start of something new._ She laid a kiss below his navel.

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~ hi, been a while, huh?

~ a few notes:

\- the mention of Rhys is not of Maas' character from A Court of Thorns and Roses, for the sake of the fic, let's pretend he was one of Terrasen's greatest kings :)

\- i sort of subconsciously wrote the song to the tune of Jenny of Oldstones from Game of Thrones

~ to those who've still been waiting for a new chapter in my absence, thank you for sticking with me.

xo


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